Twenty Years Late
by A Very Thirsty Megalomaniac
Summary: It's hard for the Ethereals to invade when someone else got there first.
1. Enemy Unknown

The rain beat on and on. Sodden citizens sulked beneath the depot's skylight, the ration line lengthening even despite the peals of thunder that boomed overhead, making the ground tremble. The striders would be tucked away tonight – lightning strikes fell well outside what they could survive. _If only barely._ Mother Nature occasionally made her honest attempt to kill the damn things, and she was only marginally more successful than all of Earth's armies had been.

 _Attrition probably still means she's ahead._ Barney Calhoun folded his arms, letting the stun baton rest against his shoulder. He watched the citizens with what they would surely call an intense suspicion, but beneath the respirator, he only felt tired. Another day, another wretched meal, no end to the misery in sight. The packet of rations fell out of the spindly metal machine at the front of the line with a clunk and the citizen, a pale, balding man, scooped it up with trembling hands and hurried away, likely afraid someone would take it from him if he did not keep it close. _And he's quite correct._ The next citizen stepped forward, a trembling woman with her hair done up in a filthy ponytail. Thunder boomed overhead.

Barney glanced over at his comrades, his fellow officers of the Combine's law. Two of them waited by the currently open sliding gate that let citizens in and out of the plaza, stun batons gripped hard in their gloves. One of them lifted a hand as the ponytail lady stepped by, almost dropping her rations as she skidded to a halt.

 _Come on, guys._ Barney bit his lip underneath the mask. He was on thin ice as it was. There was more on the line than his itching sensibilities. Or this woman's safety. He watched, the light glinting off the respirator's lenses, just another masked goon watching an innocent get victimized. _Hopefully not brutalized._

The one on the left, "Jerry", as Barney liked to call him, sauntered forward, one hand on his belt while the other waggled the baton. Barney could hear the low tones of what men's voices sounded like through the vocoder, but between the constant tap-tap-tapping of the rain up above, the muttering of hungry citizens, and the frequent bouts of honest-to-God thunder, he could only guess at what they were saying.

The woman shook her head, sharply. Jerry chuckled, and the other one, "Bruce," took a step forward. The woman stepped back, almost slipping again, her damp hands sliding over the ration packet and leaving a glistening streak. Something low and ominous slipped from Bruce's vocoder, and the woman shook her head again. The bile rose up in Barney's throat, sick and burning. Despite himself, he began tapping his foot rapidly, a symptom of the rising anxiety. _Want to do something._ He glanced down at his own baton, felt at his holster for the butt of his pistol. _A moment of glory. Could you imagine it?_

It wouldn't be so bad. A fleeting spark of justice under the Combine's tyranny, a reminder that humanity's heart still pulsed beneath the constricting metal. It would be beautiful, to die looking up at the stars … unless of course, they took him in. And the woman, too. Patched them up, took them to the trains. That path ended in total darkness.

 _There are worse fates than this, ma'am._ He wished he could reach out and even offer her that much, but he had to wait. The next person in the line walked past the lady, keeping his head down, and the two officers didn't even look at him. Their shoulders were forward, predatory, their voices low and threatening. The woman's voice reached a high pitch. Barney glanced at his baton again, fingers growing numb from gripping it so hard. _Screw this._ Barney stepped forward, his boot squeaking against the tile of the floor.

"Unit 647-E, confirm standby status?" Overwatch dispatch cut in through Barney's ear, making his heart skip a beat. For a moment he just stood there, mouth gaping beneath the respirator, before placing his hand up to the side of his head, roughly cupping the ear.

"Status confirmed. Apply." Barney licked his lips.

"Unconfirmed necrotic outbreak in Sector 9. All comm lines silent. Local protections teams nonresponsive. Hostile atmospheric conditions prevent Airwatch reconnaissance. Conscript local units for patrol of region."

"Confirmed. Officer en route." Barney lowered his hand. Now, when he stepped forward, it was with purpose alongside the anger.

"You two, possible necrotic outbreak in Sector 9." The two of them turned toward him, the lenses glinting dangerously in the dull light of the depot. The woman whipped around to face him, backing up instinctively. Barney deliberately paid her no mind. "Conscripted. We're taking the pounder to that sector and doing a clean sweep."

"Ten-four," replied Jerry dully, his eyes still fixed on the lady. His baton tapped against his thigh. He waved a hand at Bruce. "Can finish this later. Move."

 _You'll never know I was going to bat for you._ Barney did not turn to look at the poor woman as he left. He hoped she got home safely.

The three of them trudged towards the plaza entrance, none of them enthused about what waited for them outside. Barney let the two of them go first, wanting to keep an eye on them at all times. When Bruce pushed the doors open, rain and wind greeted them, the water streaking across the respirator's lenses.

"Think it's an actual containment breach?" asked Jerry, tone casual. The three of them shouldered on into the rain, Barney shutting the door behind them. "Tackling necrotics can be tricky."

Thanks to the dark, Barney couldn't even see the Citadel in the distance. Normally it would have been dead ahead. Now there was only black. Dr. Breen's face still flickered atop the massive post before them, but his words were masked by the fury of the storm. _Like he had anything worthwhile to say anyway._

"Just keep your distance," replied Bruce gruffly, pointing up ahead. The APC waited for them next to Breen's post, a single Civil Protection officer's head peeking out from the inside. He waved them over as they got close.

"Conscripted for possible outbreak?" he asked, looking around as they approached. It might have been a quirk of the vocoder, but he sounded a bit younger than most officers Barney had worked with. "Overwatch patched in. Said local units would likely converge for containment procedures in Sector 9."

"Yeah, you're conscripted," said Barney, clambering into the vehicle. "Shotgun."

The APC bounced slightly as Bruce and Jerry hustled inside, grunting at the mild exertion and cramped quarters. They huddled in the back with the weapons, Jerry sliding the door shut behind them. The interior of the APC looked as dark and blue as any other piece of Combine tech, casting the whole interior in a weird half-light that made Barney sometimes feel like he was on another planet. He suspected the effect was intentional.

The rookie, Barney decided his name was Junior, slid into the driver's seat. The interface lit up at his touch, cold metal replaced by the actual view of the plaza in front of them. The view was not much of an improvement. The APC hummed to life without much fanfare; whatever technology made the damn thing go vroom was at least silent. Junior blared the horn once before proceeding, the first checkpoint barrier deactivating as he drove up to it. Citizens flattened themselves against nearby walls as they drove past.

"Plenty of verdicts in back," said Junior. "Take your pick."

Barney craned his head backwards. Jerry and Bruce had already grabbed submachine guns from the weapon racks and were stocking their pouches full of spare magazines. _Great. I'm sure this won't lead to more dick waving._ Nevertheless, he grunted and extended a hand. Bruce shoved another MP7 into his grip, following it up with three magazines.

"Thanks." After checking the safety was on, Barney cradled it in his lap, his pouches bulging with "verdicts." Lightning flashed overhead, temporarily filling the APC's HUD with static. The thunder came disconcertingly quickly afterward.

For a few minutes, none of them spoke. There was only the rattle of rain against the APC's chassis, the storm's ongoing drama, and the occasional vocoded cough likely born of Jerry smoking too many cigarettes in his off-hours. Junior did keep glancing at Barney, though, something Barney did his best to ignore.

"Any of you guys undergone memory replacement?" Junior likely intended it to be casual, but it came out as a squeak. Barney gritted his teeth. _Don't do it. Don't let them do it to you._

"Yeah," replied Bruce, voice flat. "Needed the food. Only way was to hand my mind over. I don't think they took much."

 _How would you remember._ Barney kept his vision straight ahead, trying not to think too hard about what was happening in front of him.

"Yeah," came Jerry's unsurprising reply. "It's the only way forward. Combine are here to stay. Might as well be on the winning side. No reason to hold on to some of the darker memories." _Oh, so you just let the Seven Hour War go? Maybe the deaths of some family members?_

"Cool," said Junior, the word sounding so wrong through a Civil Protection vocoder. "I, uh, I'm thinking about doing it. I want to get ahead."

"Smart," replied Jerry. Barney could see him nodding out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, it doesn't hurt. They put you under, and when you come out, it's like … like your head doesn't weigh as much. You feel lighter and stronger."

"Less baggage dragging you back," agreed Bruce. Barney flushed as he realized they were all looking at him.

"Nah," he said, trying to wave a hand airily, as if the admission was no big deal. "There's people I don't want to forget."

"Right." Oddly enough, Bruce sounded like he understood. "Sooner or later you'll have to let go. The dead aren't coming back."

Jerry was not quite as sympathetic. He stepped forward, leaning up near Barney's face.

"You ask me, it's best to make that decision before it's made for you," he whispered, vocoder crackling. Barney looked him in the face, two CP officers squaring off. "How long you been on the force?"

"Longer than you." Barney hand tightened on the grip of his SMG. "Back up."

Jerry snorted but complied, sliding back into his seat, leering at Barney the whole time. Barney looked away, trying to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck. _Jerry might have an accident tonight._ It was dark and there were probably zombies. It could be arranged. _Wouldn't even be the first time._

"Do what you feel is best for you, kid," said Barney, not looking at Junior. "So long as you still shoot straight, you'll be okay."

The final checkpoint loomed ahead. The camera at the gate entrance flashed at them three times as they approached, and the forcefield dissipated. No one manned either side of the checkpoint. No lights shone from beyond it.

"Sector cut off from local grid. Checking with Overwatch." Barney put his hand on his head again. "Overwatch?"

"Apply."

"Checkpoint is unmanned. Proceeding into possible breached containment zone. Grid is offline. Will check in at regular intervals."

"Confirmed. Secondary protection team is on standby. Cauterize necrotics as necessary."

"Have necrotics been confirmed?" asked Bruce, shifting a little in place.

"Negative." Barney kept his eyes peeled on the streets ahead as the APC trundled through the checkpoint. _How would they have cut the power? Could be something else. Rogue vortigaunt activity?_ But no, he would have heard if the Railroad were going to try something ballsy like a mass-blackout followed by hasty evacuation. They would have had to clear it with him first. _Still … this would be a nice night for it._

"Uh." Junior hit the brakes, the APC stopping with disconcerting swiftness. Barney jerked forward, almost slamming his head into the dashboard. He almost swore at Junior before his breath caught in his throat. Directly ahead, something had punched into the hard concrete. Deep. It was still smoking. "Uh, what the hell is that?"

"Out, out." Barney waved Jerry and Bruce towards the door. They slid it open with a grunt before leaping into the rain, SMGs clutched to their chests. They scanned the streets, eyes down their sights. Barney followed them in a far less dynamic fashion, his own weapon held idly down by his waist. If there were any airborne contaminants, his suit was doing a good job keeping them out. He moved forward up the street, hoping his two bastard comrades were covering him.

A thick squat piece of steel sat in a small crater of what Barney could only assume was of its own making. It was roughly cylindrical, although it was wider at its base. Green smoke curled upwards into the night, and the entire _thing,_ whatever it was, had a sickly green hue. Around the crater's edge, people lay prone, their bodies coated in … green. Barney could not quite place it. He stepped up to one and leaned down, nudging it with his gun. It was like nudging a plaster cast over a foot; stiff yet hollow feeling. If they were alive or dead, Barney could not tell.

"Overwatch," said Barney, not sure what to say. He paused too long.

"Apply." _Great. Now I have to say something._

"Overwatch, anomalous activity in area." Barney licked his lips. "Uh, enemy skydrop has been detected in this sector. Local citizens unresponsive, either sedated or deserviced by skydrop payload. Continuing sector sweep."

"Confirmed, Unit 647-E. Relaying information to administrator." That made Barney's heart beat faster. "Continue sector sweep. Autonomous action permitted. Judgement waiver is in effect."

 _Oh, I'm sure no one here will abuse that mandate._ Behind him, Jerry and Bruce sidled forward, guns trained on the prone citizen. Barney hoped they were of sound enough judgement not to shoot on the poor bastard, whoever they were. But the two of them just crouched down and stared at the victim, apparently just as baffled as Barney was. The APC clunked from behind them, and Junior joined their side, pistol trained on the device.

"Uhh," said Junior, sidearm swinging from the glowing hell device, to the citizens, and finally further down the street and into the dark. "Uhh, any idea what this is?"

"Negative." Barney shrugged his shoulder and pointed up ahead, to a rusted old bus stop. "Assume exogen breach, unknown pathogens. Possible outbreak. Officer 542-D, take point. Let's sweep the depot first."

Officer 542-D, better known to Barney as Jerry, hustled around the edge of the crater and pressed himself flat against the bus stop. He peaked around the corner and motioned someone else to come forward. Barney went next, moving with what he hoped was a happy medium between quiet and quick. He jogged past the bus stop and crouched behind the thick base of a lamp post, training his gun around the corner. Another crater loomed on the road ahead. All else was blackness.

"Officer 371-D, move up!"

Junior was next, jogging past Barney and doing his best to duck behind a low hanging wall in front of one of the many locked tenements lining either side of the street. _Hopefully we won't have to sweep those as well._ Barney wasn't sure what time it was, but he knew his shift had to end soon. _Wonder what the hell the doc will make of this._

"Movement up ahead, possible 10-108." Junior actually sounded relatively calm as he reported this, his pistol poking up over the edge of the wall. "Middle of the street. Six-four-seven E, confirm? I'll cover you."

"Five-four-two D, pull up and over my advance. Going to check it out." Barney straightened up and trotted forward, weapon ready, holographic sight zigzagging crazily at every hurried step taken. Sure enough, someone moaned and grunted up ahead. Barney caught the familiar pattern of black and white that marked a Civil Protection officer.

"Officer down!" Barney leaned over, inspecting the body for wounds. A bloody gaping hole decorated the officer's torso, the flesh still smoking. _Acid?_ It looked like his body had been cooked through. No amount of xenian healing juice was going to fix that.

"Displace," he croaked. "Displace, displace."

"Overwatch, confirmed exogen presence. Pathogens unknown." Barney stared down helplessly at the CP officer, who stared back, hands grasping weakly at the hole in his chest. _Whoever you were … maybe you deserved this. I dunno. But maybe not. I'm sorry._ "Recommend immediate Airwatch deployment when atmospheric conditions permit."

"Confirmed, relaying information to local administrator." Again, that thrill. _A direct line to Breen. If I could just meet him in person … that'd be worth dying for._ "Redirecting local Overwatch garrison to initiate containment procedures. Citadel status upgraded to code gray. Continue sector sweep."

No sooner had the dispatch's voice faded, something else croaked over the radio.

"Overwaaaaatch. Sector … not secure."

"Live officer." Bruce sounded nervous. "There! By the depot."

A jerky silhouette stood by the open depot, his body hanging strangely, as if strings. From what Barney could see (which was admittedly little,) he seemed to be staring right at them. Then he turned, moving more like a zombie than a CP, staggering back inside the shelter of the building.

Barney glanced down at the CP below him. The man had already fallen still. _Hope your loved ones are waiting for you, pal. Hope you can remember them._ Barney moved up, gun trained on the entrance, trusting his "buddies" to cover his flanks. After circling around the next crater's edge, stepping gingerly over the prone forms of frozen citizens, they arrived without incident to the foot of the steps.

"Does anyone else smell … burning?" Bruce looked around. It was hard to tell in the dark, but now that Bruce mentioned it, the air smelled of acid smoke. Scorch marks decked the walls of the depot, massive chunks of masonry blown out of it. Now that Barney looked, he could actually see similar scorch marks and chunks of missing brick and concrete all over the damn streets, not just at the crater's edges. _Same acid that burnt a hole through that guy's chest?_

They stood at the foot of the steps, none of them willing to go first. Junior eventually took the first shaky step forward, pistol at the ready. The others followed silently, Barney feeling no small stab of shame at letting someone probably half his age take point like that. _You made it through Black Mesa, man. This isn't shit._ Still, if Black Mesa had taught him anything, it was that the unknown gave you very little warning when it was about to show up and tear you a new asshole. He kept his head down.

"Ooooooverwaaaaatch." The officer moaned like a man possessed from deeper inside the building. The four officers filed up past the vending machines and up to where the sliding iron gate would have been, had it not been melted into green slag. They stepped gingerly over it. Rain poured on them from above, the roof punched through by another green cylinder. It smoked in the food line, surrounded by countless frozen citizens.

The officer stood next to it. An MP7 hung loosely from a sling by his side. The officer stared at them, now stiff as a drawing board. Barney's stomach began to feel distinctly uneasy.

"Officer, report status!" squeaked Junior, pointing his pistol at the ground before the fellow officer. The survivor did not reply. "Officer, requesting update on containment status of Sector 9! What happened here?"

"Who … are you?" The officer cocked his head. "This is not … familiar."

 _Something's not right._ Of course, that went for most of the evening. But now Barney could feel the sweat forming beneath his mask, running into the folds of his clothing. Part of him desperately wanted to just empty half a mag into the officer, just in case. _Is he feverish? What is going on?_ An electricity hung in the air. Junior took a step forward, pointing his pistol into the air. His left hand held up, palm forward, in what was obviously a placating gesture.

"Officer 214-A, you are compromised. I must relinquish you of all verdicts." Junior took another step forward. "No harm will come to you. Hand me your weapon."

"This isn't a good idea." Jerry stepped forward, but Bruce tugged him back. "Hey? Officer? Maybe back away. Wait for that Overwatch garrison."

Junior took another step forward. The survivor did not move. They were now at most only about four feet from each other.

"Overwatch…? Combine?" The survivor twitched, head lolling. "We are … supplanted? Undone? The work must continue. Who are you?"

"My name is Officer Trent Shaw, and I'm here to help!" Junior took one final step forward. "Please … give me your weapon."

Bruce, Jerry, and Barney hung back, none of them breathing. The survivor looked at Junior, er, Trent without any apparent movement. Trent stretched out his hand.

"Give … give me your hand."

The survivor looked at Trent and cocked his head stiffly. Then he glanced back at the two of them.

"Who are you? Combine. We will give … we will give…" With a scream, the survivor's right hand jerked up, gun firing wildly. Trent fell back, blood spraying in all directions as a veritable cone of bullets slammed into him. Barney did not even hesitate, joining the others in shouting and shooting, the survivor falling in a hail of retaliatory gunfire. In the dust, two officers lay choking in their own blood, their movements weakening as the flow of blood slowed. Barney breathed, heart hammering. _Shit shit shit!_

"Officer down, Overwatch, requesting backup!" Bruce surged forward, hands reaching for Trent. Jerry however, began screaming.

"Movement! Movement! We've got host-"

Something fast and green flew from out of the shadows. It struck the wall behind Barney with ridiculous force, scattering wood and brick everywhere. Barney shouted and threw himself down while Bruce returned fire, shell casings flying from their weapons.

"Sector 9 local protection teams report status." But no one could answer dispatch. More green blasts flew from the shadows, and Barney could see something _scuttling_ in the shadows from across the room, something on all fours. Over the chaos, he did catch the sounds of two officer flatlining. "Two officers deserviced, remaining units contain. Unit 647-E, requesting status."

Barney did not answer. He rolled in place towards the entrance, positioning himself behind the wall and adjacent to the vending machines.

"Out of verdicts, displacing!" Bruce, who had ducked behind the fallen cylinder, now backed up, changing his magazines with all speed. "Requesting covering fire."

Jerry complied, laying down a suppressing fire at the scuttling bastard across the room. Barney thought he heard a shrill cry of pain. It was swiftly followed by another hail of green from across the depot, which struck Bruce square in the chest.

The smell of burnt flesh erupted from where he had been hit. Bruce fell as if kicked by a mule, his scream even through the vocoder sounding horrible to hear. Just as suddenly, he gave a wet cough and flatlined, leaving just Barney and Jerry.

"Outbreak outbreak outbreak!" Jerry backed up, firing wildly. Barney followed his lead, laying down a few smart bursts before rising and backing up out the open door. "To the pounder, go!"

The two of them beat feet out the door, turning tail and abandoning the depot altogether. _Guns, it's got guns and armor._ As they reached the bus station, more green bolts shoot overhead. Where they struck the streets and tenements, concrete blew to pieces, showering the area with molten rubble.

"Outbreak!" screamed Jerry. "Outbreak outb-"

Something green lit up from behind Barney, and he didn't wait to hear the flatline. The APC loomed in his vision, just a few more seconds…

Barney Calhoun leaped inside the APC and slammed the door shut behind him. He did not climb into the driver's seat; he didn't exactly have escape in mind just yet. He instead rapped the button on the APC's sealing, lighting up the second interface on the side of the vehicle opposite the driver's door, two small handles emerging from the metal folds.

 **APC PULSE RIFLE: ACTIVE**

 **GUN STATUS: GREEN**

Barney grabbed the handles and swiveled the gun to face directly ahead. Through the APC's nightvision, he could see movement.

"Eat it, you sons of bitches!" Barney let out the war cry he had perfected in Black Mesa, that mix of panic and triumph solidified into a singular scream. The pulse rifle let fly, kicking up dust and chunks of street as Barney fired it at where he knew the enemy was, then where he thought where the enemy was, and then finally just kept firing because his blood was still running hot. The blue bullets soared into the night, the lightning flashing and thunder booming as the gun cried out, Barney with it.

It took a long time for him to stop firing. When he did, panting, he sat back into his seat, heart hammering, unsure of what to do next. Nothing moved outside. The wind howled, the lightning flashed, the rain fell, but nothing scuttled. He waited, breathing hard. _Shit … takes me back to Black Mesa. Been a long time since I've felt like … well … like I was up against the unknown._ The Seven Hour War didn't count, all he could do then was run. This was more like the old days.

The minutes sneaked on by. Nothing fired burning acid from out of the black. Barney's breathing gradually slowed. He reached for his gun, let the half-spent magazine clatter to the floor. He slotted another in with barely-shaking hands. Then he slid the door open, uncertain of what exactly to look for.

Barney stepped out into the rain-slicked streets, gun trained on the darkness. Up ahead, he could see … something. A silhouette, something boxy in its right hand. _That looks human, at least._ Whoever it was, they stepped behind the bus stop and out of Barney's sight. He thought about calling out, but instead settled for crouching and sneaking forward, gun fixed on where he had last saw the man. Thing. Probably man.

Barney pressed himself against the other side of the bus stop and then swung around. Nothing. Not a trace. Vanished into thin air, and Barney sure as shit hadn't seen him go anywhere else. Barney kept his gun level, turning in place, wondering what the hell was going on. As he took a cautionary step forward, something both crunched and squished underfoot, making him hastily backpedal.

"What the…?" He had trodden on an arm. That was not unusual, given the circumstances. What was unusual was what the arm was attached to. Small, maybe barely three feet in length, color hard to tell in the dark. Its eyes were large and multifaceted, half-open in its death grimace. Several wounds in its chest and head leaked green, courtesy of Barney's panicked barrage. Its head was massive relative to the rest of its body. Its arms and legs were spindly almost to the point of grotesqueness, and its trunk looked like a human toddler's.

It looked, in short, like what Barney would have described as Roswell aliens before everything went to hell. Before he knew better. Except now, apparently, here they were. Back with a vengeance.

"Of course they'd be worse than the fucking Combine." Barney stood there, feeling the blood raise to his cheeks. The creature did not answer. The green had already stopped running from its wounds. "Right? There's always something worse right around the corner."

"Unit 647-E, Overwatch inbound to your location, requesting status update."

Barney froze, remember just who and where he was. He looked down at the little Gray bastard, not even sure who to be angry at anymore. Or what to do. _The doc should see this._ But there was only one real way to go about that.

"Hated this job anyway." Barney pulled his mask off from his face, letting the rain roll down his cheeks, washing the sweat away. He pulled the EKG monitor from his chest, the flatline echoing through the dead streets, and then threw it to the ground. He crushed it with a muffled crunch underfoot.

"Always wondered how I'd go out," he grunted, hurling his mask into the darkness. Then he leaned down and pulled the Gray bastard upright, pulling him over his shoulder. He weared more than Barney expected. "C'mon, E.T. I'm taking you home."

As Barney slipped into the nearest alley and made the long trip back to Kleiner's, the Citadel lit up in the distance. For the first time in living memory, the panels slid back on the mammoth monument to the Combine's dominion.

And the sirens began to sound.

* * *

 **A/N: Shouldn't I be writing Sudden Terminus or Smoke, Sorcery, and Steel?**

 **Shut up. The answer is yes, but all these Hunt Down the Freeman reviews make me want to write some fucking Half Life. So here's some fucking Half Life. Next chapter for both stories is in progress, but Smoke, Sorcery, and Steel will probably update before ST. This will probably update tomorrow. Maybe. Anyway, look forward to some hot Combine vs. Advent goodness.**


	2. Sudden Contact

The ocean might have receded far from the coast, but the morning wind in New Little Odessa always carried the smell of salt. Colonel Odessa Cubbage breathed in deep, remembering similar mornings during family vacations to Deal, back home when he was a lad. _Ah, but there it was warmer. Even at this time of year._ It sent a small chill down his spine to think what had become of such places, not that he had seen any of England since war's end. _No children there, now. That is for certain. We are the last generations of picnickers…_

Odessa took another deep breath inward, relishing the scent of the sea, and then began a light jog past the fuel shack, down the hill. The gravel crunched underfoot, and Odessa paid keen attention. A thumper might occupy the base of the hill, but the moment gravel turned to sand, he would be making his merry way back up to base. Even outside of spawning season, antlions could be dangerously territorial little buggers, and the thumper did not always immediately scramble their senses. They already had one man laid up with a bitten leg; it would scarcely do to add their leadership to the mix.

"Morning, colonel." Watts, the medic, already on her way back up the hill. Odessa nodded as she ran by. She usually did three circuits, all the way to the bottom and up to the gate. Odessa could just about make it without stopping, but Watts made it look easy. _Lucky to have her here._ Odessa breathed in and out slowly, trying not to slide on the slope. The thumper boomed up ahead, kicking up dust and sand every time the hammer came down. Some of the more daring people on Odessa's crew would use the thumper itself as the marker to turn back. Odessa knew better.

The ground ceased crunching underfoot, and Odessa laboriously turned around, preparing for the actually difficult part of the morning's exercise. As always, the hair stood up on the back of his neck as he turned his back to the sand, and he couldn't help nervously glancing back as he began the struggle against gravity. His calves started burning almost immediately, the damnable symptom of encroaching age. Nevertheless, his breaths came slow and easy, even as the muscles began to complain.

"Colonel. Morning." Two more of his crew, Decker and Krakowsky, clad in full combat attire and carrying submachine guns. If anyone in this little hamlet were worthy of serving in her Majesty's armed forces (excusing Odessa himself,) it would be these two. Tough, dutiful, and resourceful. Born squaddies. Or at least, in better times, they would have been. They proceeded down the hill at an impressive pace.

Odessa only began panting as he passed the fuel shack, legs really burning, not relishing the second or possibly third circuit. To his surprise, mild irritation, and privately held relief, someone waved at him from the Odessa HQ, by the entrance to the basement. Adjusting the beanie about his ears, Odessa jogged past the fuel shack and to the ramshackle house that had doubtless once been a fine tourist destination. Annette Durand, radio technician and occasional nurse, held her hands in front of her and did her best to look contrite.

"Sorry to interrupt your jog, Colonel, but we've got Leon on the radio."

"Leon, eh?" Odessa huffed, trying to make the sharp intakes of breath look more like indignation than a failing constitution. "Is Shore Point in trouble? Did he say?"

"I didn't ask." Annette jerked a thumb back to the basement. "Sparks is waiting for you, as well. If you'll excuse me, I'm on tower watch."

"Ah, yes. Of course." Odessa gave her a salute, which she returned rather sarcastically, if he was any judge. It didn't matter. What mattered was the job at hand, whether it was scaling the tower and keeping watch for enemy activity, or assessing Shore Point's status and whether they required assistance.

Odessa trudged down the creaking wooden steps down into the basement, wrinkling his nose at the smell of old mattresses. They did what they could to keep the place clean – they had running water and electricity, which helped – but there was little they could do to slow the aging of the building, or the beds in which they slept. _If spawning season weren't right around the corner, I'd ask Shore Point for some help with that._ But it would have to wait until next year. Hopefully. It was unlikely Shore Point was in any better shape.

"The Odessa Cubbage." The vortigaunt his troops affectionately referred to as "Sparks," greeted Odessa as he rounded the corner past the mattresses and before the radio. He inclined his head, all red eyes shutting at once in acknowledgement of Odessa's obvious brilliance. "Once the Leon Bello has concluded his discussion with you, we would converse with you."

"Understood. Thank you." Odessa nodded to Sparks before placing his hands against the table the crackling radio rested on. He pressed the transmit button. "NLO to Shore Point. NLO to Shore Point, come in. This is Colonel Odessa Cubbage, do you read? Over."

"Odessa, it's Leon. You read me?" Odessa frowned at the lapse in radio protocol, but it could hardly be helped. Many of the people he worked with were hardly soldiers by career; most of them had never held a gun before war's end. And it was hardly as if anyone was left to train them properly. _Well, aside from that Bradford fellow, up at White Forest. But he always struck me as the sour sort._

"NLO to Shore Point, I read you loud and clear, Leon. What appears to be the trouble? Are you in need of assistance? Over."

"Uh, no. Situation is normal, Colonel." Odessa smiled. _So he remembers my rank! Good. And all is well._ "Well, sorry, situation is not normal, but we are not under attack. Combine presence is minimal on the outskirts, but we had a scare earlier today. Rachels and Travers swear to God they saw … um…"

"Well?" asked Odessa, growing genuinely irritated at the hesitance despite himself. "Bloody great Citadels dropped from the sky one day in the middle of our cities, and we got over the sight of them eventually. What fresh hell has the Combine brought for us?"

"They claimed they saw a flying saucer, Colonel." Leon sounded defeated at this, and again, despite himself, Odessa found himself choking with sudden surprise. "UFO. Round shape, glowing green and purple lights, complete with weird … alien sounds." Leon cleared his throat. "Uh, thing is, I saw one, too. Out on the pier, and headed roughly your way."

"The … the Combine are employing flying saucers, now?" Odessa could not possibly see the point. They already had the airs secured with their synths, what would flying saucers possibly add to their existing arsenal and capabilities? "Leon, are you certain-"

"Roughly forty feet by forty feet by my guess," said Leon flatly. "Moving at impressive speeds. Not too much headroom, from the look of it. And yes, it was making weird alien sounds. A kind of electronic warbling. None of the Combine's signature style, either. It wasn't a synth."

"Leon," began Odessa, not sure what he was exactly trying to say or how. "Leon, I'm sorry, but this is preposterous. Are you absolutely certain…?"

"I know what I saw. And the others saw it, too." Leon remained firm. "It was headed your way. You got someone on that tower of yours? Maybe give them that RPG. I don't know if that thing was armed or even hostile, but you best be ready if it is. Anyway, that's all I had."

"I … see." Odessa drummed his fingers against the desk. "Well, thank you for the reconnaissance. I shall alert our watchmen immediately to be on the alert for…" Odessa paused. "…well, perhaps not UFOs directly, they would laugh at me, but … just to be on the alert."

"Good call. Everything quiet up there?"

"Yes," replied Odessa, glancing at the vortigaunt. "Yes, all is well. Soon enough the air will be thick with those infernal antlion pheromones, but we are well-prepared for any of their incursions, and we are well-stocked besides. Give my regards to your men. Over and out."

"Same to you, Colonel. Over and out." The radio shut off with a snap, and Odessa rounded on Sparks, frowning. The vortigaunt again inclined his head, this time in a more placatory gesture.

"The Odessa Cubbage would do well, to heed the Leon Bello's warnings. We sense something … new."

"Not the Combine?" asked Odessa, still doubtful over Leon's words.

"The Combine hold this place under an iron grasp. They see no need for further innovation or pressure on the Earth's dominion at this time." The vortigaunt cocked his head. "No. The Vortessence keens with an unfamiliar song. Not since Black Mesa has such discordance rung through our minds."

"Well that is … worrying." Odessa stroked his chin. "What would you suggest?"

The vortigaunt gave him a heavy-lidded stare. "We have heard humanity utter the credence that the enemy of one's enemy becomes a friend. We would urge the Odessa Cubbage to disregard this notion. Humanity does not ally with those who weave the Vortessence purely out of hate for the Combine. Our alliance is one born of want, not need."

"Understood." Odessa dusted off his jacket. "That can be well enough arranged. Assuming these reports are indeed real, I strongly doubt, based on prior experience at least, that these new visitors are friendly. So few of you are."

"The Odessa Cubbage is wise to hold on to his distrust." Sparks again inclined his head. "Now, this one must see to the generator." The vortigaunt began its slow descent up the inner stairs, its form looking so hunched compared to a human's. Odessa still wasn't used to it, the slimy sheen of the tan flesh, the way the legs bent back … still, they were stalwart allies. Good chaps, the lot of them.

That just left notifying Annette to look out for UFOs. The very idea made Odessa cluck his tongue. _This is what it has come to._ He made his way up the basement exit, the smell of must and sweat once more giving way to salt and sunshine. He breathed it in deep, remembering his days in Kent. _Ah. To see home one last time._

The "watchtower," such as it was, was at once a source of both pride and shame. Pride because it did not fall over; the hasty assemblage of wood delivered from further inland outposts had stood the test of time for two years now. Pride because, if nothing else, it really did offer a superb view of the surrounding environs.

Shame, because it was entirely exposed to the elements. Shame, because there were no guardrails at the top and two people had fallen off already. Odessa had seen the kind of watchtowers the Combine set up in their cities, or along the shorelines close to Nova Prospekt. Their pale, wooden imitation was a sharp reminder in the differences in industrial strength between their foes and themselves. _Still, we're bloody good shots and we always see them coming._

"Annette!" called out Odessa, standing at the foot of the ladder and looking up. "Annette, can you hear me up there?"

"What?" Annette looked down from her post. "Colonel, something to look out for."

Odessa nodded and then sucked in a breath, considering. _Anomalous air activity? Possible round synth? Or should I just admit it and tell the woman there's a bloody UFO on the loose, please keep your eyes peeled?_

"Shore Point has reported strange air activity in the region," said Odessa, unwilling to let the woman look down on him metaphorically when she was already doing so physically. "Keep an eye on the south. He said it was round shaped, whatever it was. Like a disc."

"Like a flying saucer, Colonel?" asked Annette, her light French accent turning mocking. Odessa gritted his teeth.

"You know, I really didn't think to ask. Just give a shout if you see anything."

"Gotcha." Annette's face disappeared from the top of the ladder. "Yeah, I'll shout if I see any UFOs. Or gunships. Or dropships. Or man-" Annette stopped dead. Odessa waited for her to finish her sentence, but there was only silence from the top of the tower. _She didn't fall off. I didn't hear a thump. Is she all right?_

"Durand, are you all right?" Odessa craned his neck upwards. "Durand, report!"

"There's something to the southeast. Over the water."

"Southeast?" Odessa rounded on the ocean. "Where? I can't-"

Never mind, he could see it. Over the cliff and across the waves, hovering innocently over the waters teeming with deadly alien leeches. It did not look terribly large from their distance, and the way it was angled, it was not clear exactly what they were looking at.

"Could be a cloud, Colonel," said Annette hesitantly, and Odessa knew denial when he smelled it.

"This isn't the bleeding X-Files, woman! Sound the bloody alarm!"

Annette did not wait a second. The New Little Odessa klaxon sounded, echoing off the cliffs. Watts, fresh from her run, ran into the house, likely to her medical station. The two lads, having just reached the gate, readied weapons and converged on Odessa, shouting for instruction. Sparks poked his head from the house, all three arms readied to use the Vortessence. And Odessa shouted through it all, trying to keep everyone calm.

"Unidentified flying object, southeast of our location!" Odessa pointed to Decker. "Be a good lad and fetch the rocket launcher, would you?"

"You got it, Colonel!" He hurried off.

"Sparks, cover Watts and make sure we do not lose our medic."

"For freedom!" the vortigaunt bellowed before hurrying back inside the house.

"Rest of you, ready weapons and wait for further instructions. Take up positions wherever there is aerial cover."

"And what will you do, Colonel?" asked Annette from above. Odessa bit his lip.

"I shall radio Shore and Lighthouse Point!" he said, aware of the groan from above. "If nothing else, they will not be blind to the threat of this thing, whatever it is. Then, I shall head topside promptly to, if necessary, lend a hand!"

And with that, Odessa trotted back inside, sweating. _No need to expose myself needlessly._ The smell of must and sweat suddenly became a great deal more welcoming as he ensconced himself below. He hit the transmit button quickly, his nerves getting the better of him.

"NLO to Shore Point!" he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand. "NLO to Shore Point, come in. This Colonel-"

The radio gave a scream of static, making Odessa jump. The lights began to flicker, making Odessa wonder if there had been truth to those alien sightings all those years ago. The radio continued to hiss, but now Odessa could pick up something beneath. Something … English?

"…come…"

"This is Colonel Odessa Cubbage with the Resistance," squeaked Odessa, thumb still stuck on the transmitter. "Whoever is listening, please, we are not defenseless. Steer well clear of our airspace!"

"…come…"

"Are you listening?" Odessa slammed a moist palm against the table. "This is Colonel Odessa Cubbage, with the Earth defense force. You shall _not_ have New Little O-"

The house shook as the air was rent with a great howl. Odessa steadied himself on a nearby chair as the upstairs filled with the sounds of pictures falling from the walls.

"…second floor…" The radio gave one final crackle and fell silent. Odessa stared at the machine in mute horror, feeling for the butt of his revolver. _Feels like a bad dream._ He stared up at the interior stairs. _Well, if they can reach me down here …_ He began the climb, feeling half-asleep.

Annette, Watts, and Sparks all peered from around door frames as Odessa passed them by, all of them clearly wondering what the hell was going on. Odessa only motioned them to follow.

"Top floor. Ready weapons." He paused. "And Vortessence, I suppose." He drew his revolver.

The top of NLO HQ had long since given way to the elements. Odessa rose, blinking, into the bright sunshine of the late morning, his free hand shielding himself from the worst of it. Then he turned and looked to the gaping open hole of HQ's second floor.

The UFO hung silently in place, its hull probably only ten feet or so from scraping against the gravel itself. It did indeed, to Odessa's mounting mix of indignation and terror, resemble nothing so much as the archetypical Gray's spacecraft, complete with blinking lights, rotating chassis, and disc shape. _Either all those reports back in the day were true or someone is taking the piss._

"I blame Black Mesa," said Annette from behind him, and Odessa could not help but agree. He would be having _words_ with Doctor Vance about this. If anyone had any experience regarding clandestine dealings with aliens, it would be him.

"I do hope Decker fetched that bloody launcher." Odessa took a hesitant step forward, free hand still shielding him from the sun while his pistol remained pointed at the floor. He looked back to his associates. "Well, form up! Take up positions while I try to establish contact."

"The Odessa Cubbage would do well to heed the words of those who wield-"

"Yes! Yes, I got that." Odessa pointed to the crumbling plaster wall to his right. "Get in position. Sparks, all I am saying is that, would I have it my way, NLO would not be erased from the goddamn map today by some errant hostility!"

Annette took up position behind a half-destroyed cupboard while Watts remained back by the staircase. The vortigaunt dutifully trudged to where Odessa pointed, head bowed and eyes fixed on the floating UFO. It had so far failed to make a sound.

Odessa took another hesitant step forward. _Well? What is it going to be? You wanted me here. Do you want me to … play music? Flash my own colors?_

As if on cue, two lines appeared at the front of the craft – hinges. A ramp slid out from the previously smooth contours of the ship, touching the lip of the dilapidated house. Luminescent lilac light illuminated the second floor, making Odessa take a step back.

From inside the ship, something stepped – no, simply _moved_ forward. Tall, gracious. Immaculate red robes flowing behind it, a strange ivory(?) mask atop its face. If it had arms, Odessa supposed they must have been folded into the robes. It floated down the ramp with an eerie grace and in utter silence. It stopped at the ramp's bottom, not quite setting foot (well, in a manner of speaking) on the HQ. Despite its face remaining obscured, Odessa noted the way its head turned to face him. He felt … an acknowledgement.

"Well?" he asked, his voice once again a squeak. "What … what have you?"

The being paused, turning its head to where Sparky had flattened himself against the wall. Odessa felt his neck stand up from the static electricity.

"Interloper," hissed the vortigaunt, but the alien did not react. It merely looked back to Odessa, as if reconsidering him somehow.

Slowly, ponderously, the right side of the alien shifted. A single purple hand, the fingers and arm both spindly and of considerable length, emerged from within the folds of the robe. The hand outstretched, the fingers reaching out for Odessa. And then the creature stopped, waiting.

"I … see." Odessa gulped, cleared his throat, and looked back at his associates. Marie and Watts both had their guns trained on the alien being, and Sparks' teeth were bared, his eyes a blaze of fury. _This could so easily end in bloodshed._

But the alien did not move. It just waited, almost serene. Odessa looked down at his revolver. _Decisions, decisions._

"The Colonel Cubbage will step aside," murmured the vortigaunt, taking a tremulous step forward. "This one will-"

"No!" Odessa held up a hand, stopping the vort in his tracks. "No, no. I am in command here, and it is clear to me that if we can establish friendly contact, we should do so." Odessa stared the vortigaunt down, its red eye livid in fury. "I do not seem to recall as polite a first contact with your kind, nor with the Combine. I relish the change of pace."

"Colonel-" began Annette, but Odessa held up a hand again.

"Enough! Whatever happens, I take full responsibility." Odessa stared the alien down, heart thudding. _No need to bomb our little outpost. Yes, yes, nice and easy, going in for a little handshake._

The morning sun shone down on Odessa from behind the UFO. He shuffled forward, leaving a trail of footprints in the accumulated dust, dirt, and sand. The alien waited patiently. As Odessa approached, the hair on his neck stood up again, the static electricity building. He heard Annette muttering from behind him.

Only a few more feet. The sun silhouetted it all in shadow, turning the alien's opulent red robes into a shade of black, framed against brilliant gold. Odessa removed his hand from before his eyes, wincing in the light of the sun. His hand, shaking and sweating, reached out for the alien.

At the building's edge, their hand hung motionless next to one another's, fingers outstretched. Up close, Odessa realized how the alien towered over him, even accounting for how it floated above the ground. It looked down at him through the mask, head tilting slightly.

For a few long moments, there was only the distant sound of the crashing waves. Then, with a strength that surprised Odessa, the alien's fingers fixed on his wrist, clamping him firmly in its grasp.


	3. Combine Harvester

Wallace Breen looked down on City 17 from on high, and wondered how, precisely, it had come to this. The thin cloud layer did not obscure the stark cityscape below, from its crumbling tenements to the Combine's impenetrable autonomous walls, many of which likely were recycling more of the city as he looked. Total control.

 _And yet, somehow, we are under assault._ His contacts in the Resistance had sent no word of a major offensive, and what he had heard suggesting nothing less than … well. The kind of assault one might have seen in the old days, before the Co – Universal Union. Unknown atmospheric disturbances. Strange weaponry. A sudden, overwhelming, and inexplicable offensive. _How odd it must feel, for the Universal Union to be on the opposite end of such an attack._

But such a thought was folly. The Universal Union did not care. His trans-dimensional liaison awaited an update with mild curiosity, not fear. Their resources were infinite, or close enough to the word as any human mind could readily comprehend. No, at present, these invaders, whoever they were, represented an opportunity. More minds to collect. More identities to subsume. More technology to … adapt. _And they have stayed well clear of the Citadel. Even I cannot help but feel unthreatened._

Nevertheless, it had been seven hours since the Citadel's initial alarm. The dead of a stormy night now turned to the grays of another still midday in what was once Eastern Europe. Scanners searched every inch of every sector, leaving nothing untouched. Sector 9 crawled with the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch, whose compliance and thoroughness could not be questioned. If there was anything to find, they would find it. But … seven hours, and nothing. Wallace sighed and turned in place, heel sliding neatly on the rug. He sat down at his desk, lifting the paper from where he had left it and straightening it out with a surreptitious flick.

 _Anomalous activity. Sector not controlled. Outbreak – so there was at least one left after initial contact. Possible subversion of a CP unit – mental? The way they spoke of it, it was as if the officer had been controlled by a headc – excuse me, parasite. Yet, we have nothing on record suggesting necrotics could still speak coherently or use weaponry post-infestation…_

Wallace sniffed, turning his attention to the top of the report. _Sudden blackout. Not unexpected during an electrical disturbance such as a thunder storm. Sudden loss of contact with all CP units – that is unheard of. Should have raised an alarm immediately. Overwatch tried to raise them for twenty minutes before diverting the first CP team. Total radio silence after passing the checkpoint. The second team, whoever they were, had more luck. All dead now, though. Overwatch reports four flatlines._

Wallace rubbed his forehead, feeling a slight headache coming on. It was all well and good, sitting at the highest and hardest point on the planet, but the foundation … well, that belonged to the Universal Union. And if he could not make himself useful, well, there was a very long way to fall. And at this very moment? He had nothing. He did not feel very useful. _Pray that the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch lives up to the lofty expectations you set for them to our Benefactors…_

Wallace's pager beeped. He pressed the button without hesitation, hoping it was news and not … anything else.

"Dr. Breen, speaking?"

"Scythe-1. Evidence from infestation zone."

Wallace leaned back in his chair, sighing. _Good. Good. Something to work with._ He pushed the button again.

"Come right in." At the far side of his office, the interlocking sheets of metal that comprised his door slid apart. Two Enhanced Troopers, what the layman might call the Combine Elite, wheeled in a small metal container, roughly cylindrical in shape. A more superstitious man might have said it resembled a coffin. The two Elites pushed it directly in front of Wallace's desk and then filed off to the side, waiting.

"Is it … safe?"

"Subject has been scrubbed of contaminants. Internal security systems cleared access to the Citadel." The soldier spoke with the same low, vocoded tones of all his kind. Their padded white armor, down to insignia, looked identical to Wallace. _God knows what they see out of that single red eye of theirs. How do they tell each other apart? Do they need to?_

Dr. Tygan would be able to tell him. But Wallace sometimes suspected that Tygan lied. He rose from his desk and gingerly approached the sealed, well, coffin, wondering what, exactly, the finest troops humanity could offer the Combine had brought him. He ran a hand down the smooth metal shell of the container. _Cold. Probably to preserve the body … or what's left of it._ His hand felt for the glowing green button and pressed it.

With a hiss of released pressure and a surge of cold air, the container parted. The smell of something sterile and clean, like laundry detergent, filled the air. Wallace wrinkled his nose but did not step back, staring down at his prize, whatever it was. For a few heavy moments, he could only stare.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Wallace looked up to the two Elites, who only glanced at each other in their closest approximation of confusion. Wallace looked back down to the little curled up body inside its coffin. "I…" Wallace stepped back, looking away, head in hand. "…this cannot be real."

"No electromagnetic or psychic phenomenon detected in vicinity of corpse," offered one Elite helpfully. "The subject exists fully within this dimension."

"I know that!" Wallace wheeled around, sucking in a deep breath. "It's just that … well. With everything I have seen at Black Mesa and since … dammit, if something like this existed, I would have known about it already!" Wallace glared down at the feeble-looking bastard, hoping some kind of explanation would be forthcoming. There was nothing. No trick, no joke. A large-headed, bug-eyed, smooth-skinned little alien creature lay in a padded coffin, smelling strongly of anti-septic solution. Doubtless it had flown around in a little saucer and sported a ray gun as well. Perhaps it had even probed its fair share of citizens, before being brought down by-

"Who killed it?" asked Wallace, eyes still fixed on the alien's stiff form.

"Verdicts delivered by stationed CP pounder," said the Elite on the right. "Two rounds through the torso. Biotic carried no visible weapon. Unable to locate additional biotics within infection zone."

"Any other bodies?" asked Wallace.

"Negative."

"I doubt one three-foot alien could do all of that damage." It was perhaps dangerous to assume, but given the scale of the devastation… "The others must have fled once we reinforced the sector. Does Airwatch have anything to report?"

"Negative."

"I see." Wallace turned around and stared back out through the window. The city glittered dully below. _Whatever they may think of me, it is my charge to defend City 17 from both outside threats and the follies of its own citizens. Whatever they may think of me …_ He had responsibilities to attend to.

"Wheel the body down to the antechamber," said Wallace, waving his hand at the shoulder. "Our Benefactors will want to see this."

The Elites resealed the container and followed Wallace as he proceeded down the rug and through the short corridor leading to the elevator. The three of them stood there as the doors shut. Wallace tried not to focus on the stillness of the Elites, how neither seemed to need to even breathe…

The elevator descended slowly, the bright lights of Wallace's office giving way to the softer lighting of the slightly lower levels. Metal pipes and thin glass tubes wormed their way down the shaft as they proceeded downward. To Wallace, they always looked like nothing more than the Citadel's equivalent of veins and arteries. _And sometimes I hear the building scream._ He had never dared to ask their Benefactors if the Citadel itself was a synth. It certainly would not have surprised him. Yet he had always held his tongue. Their Benefactors disliked that kind of analytical thinking unless it had been asked for. _Free will has to prove its worth, otherwise it will be replaced with something more … practical._ One need only look to the two gentlemen to either side of him to see the outcome of that. _Better an Elite than a stalker._

The elevator continued to wind down into the depths. Speaking of the devil, Stalkers strode awkwardly on their spindly metal stilts across the myriad walkways, occasionally stopping at a computer terminal or to apply maintenance to some machine. They remained blessedly silent. Wallace hated it when they screamed.

Conveyors churned endlessly, and Wallace could see APCs and Helicopters being transported to the final stages of completion. Gunships hung silently on walls, their multifaceted eyes glittering in the Citadel's lights. As they passed underneath another walkway, the familiar thud of a strider's footstep could be heard rounding the corner. Wallace spared another glance at the coffin. _If I were you, I would pack it up and head back to where you came from. Believe me, nothing good can come from opposing our Benefactors._ The price of resistance stood next to him … or pushed buttons on a computer terminal with metal prosthetics.

The light faded further, leaving just enough to see. The Elites features turned bleary and indistinct, the previously distinct logo of a cracked human skull encircled by the Combine's clamp turning into little more than a fuzzy white blob. _Although my eyes may be going._ Wallace did not relish the thought of what Comb – the Universal Union's eye surgery might have looked like. _I will stick to glasses if necessary._

The doors slid open without a sound, greeting them all with a blast of unwelcomingly warm air. It felt like being back in New Mexico during a hot summer's night. The inside of Black Mesa might have been 68 degrees, but that did not apply to the topside dormitories, and the air conditioning was always on the fritz. Here and now, Wallace felt that same heat and helplessness. Their Benefactors preferred a dry heat, and he would simply have to live with it. He took his first careful steps forward into the empty blackness ahead.

The ceiling stretched high overhead. The walls to either side of him were featureless, as was the great expanse of space around him. A single massive door adorned the upper part of the wall directly ahead, made of the interlocking plates of Wallace's own entrance to his chambers. A single rail, linked to the ceiling, ran through it, with the other end coming to a halt just a few feet above Wallace. And on the door itself, blazed in red, a series of markings and scratches that only Wallace and a handful of Overwatch had ever seen.

 _There's only a handful of people on the planet who have ever seen that symbol._ They were familiar enough with the Combine clamp, or the letters "CMB," and all earthborne synths had their own markings somewhere on their … person. Even the Transhuman Overwatch had their own insignias, varying only by rank. But the symbol on that door indicated something that was not manufactured. Whatever the Universal Union was at its core, these … representatives … were the closest to that ideal one would find on Earth.

 _And they are the reason I_ must _succeed where anyone else would fail. Why I must ignore every pang of conscience or doubt._ Wallace glanced behind him. The soldiers wheeled up the coffin with barely a squeak, neither of them appearing the slightest bit uneasy. There were times Wallace envied what a Transhuman brain was capable of, even if he was nowhere near willing to have any kind of enhancement surgery done on himself.

Wallace scuffed his feet against the floor, feeling like a child waiting outside the principal's office. _I have done nothing wrong. They wanted any physical evidence found brought to them as soon as possible, and I have done so._ It was not as if their Benefactors ever got angry. From what Wallace could tell, they were not capable of it; or at least, not angry as a human would understand it. Still, there was a certain irritation that Wallace could always sense when they were disturbed. From what he could tell, they liked the Earth quiet.

"I am here. I have brought word of the invaders." Wallace stared up at the great door above, hands placed behind his back, standing as stock still as possible. The sweat began to build beneath his clothing. _Have to take a shower before doing any more broadcasts._ He tentatively brought a hand to his brow and mopped it.

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Wallace held his breath despite himself, wondering what kind of reaction he would be getting. Then, up above, light inched its way through the newly forming gaps in the door. The metal slats parted, some sliding upwards, others downwards. A single metal shell, roughly oval in shape, came sliding down the rail, rocking gently and clanking. The hair on the back of Wallace's neck began to stand on end. Slowly, the oval began its descent. The air began to thicken and feel more oppressive. A smell like … well, Wallace had kept a few lizards as pets, and the way the inside of their habitat when he opened it, it was like that. Sickly, alien, and hot. Recognizable, but never fully understandable. And somehow just _wrong._

The oval stopped above Wallace. He could, if he felt today was a fine day to end his own existence, perhaps jump high enough to just barely pat its hull. The air rippled as it finally rocked to a halt, and Wallace felt a familiar pressure in the back of his mind. Familiar and unwelcome. The air twisted and squirmed, and the blue-black metal of the oval's exterior seemed to darken.

"Yes, I have brought a dead specimen," replied Wallace, shivering. Their Benefactors never … spoke. Well, they certainly communicated, but it was always in the past, somehow. And Wallace could never precisely relate what was said. Just the general intention. Orders were at least always clear. Their Benefactors did not like being misunderstood.

The oval shook slightly, as if whatever lived inside it turned over slightly in its sleep. A muffled grunt issued from within. Then the corners of Wallace's vision reddened slightly, as if something heavy were leaving an imprint within his skull. He scratched his forehead, trying not to give any obvious indication of the mounting pain.

"Yes, it possesses a cranium, from what I can see. One must assume it has a nervous system in some capacity. But we found no existing weapon on the body, and this was the only recovered specimen."

The air stilled slightly. Whatever lay within began considering the situation. _No irritation. That's good._ Their Benefactors were still capable of curiosity, it seemed, and Wallace did not know if anything like this had happened before. _The extra-dimensional meets the extra-terrestrial. It could get exciting._ Wallace remained under no delusions as to who would win the conflict, however. The reason for that certainty lay above him.

The next order came for the Elites, who stiffened slightly before complying. The leftmost soldier hit the button, and the coffin once again opened, releasing a good deal less air pressure this time. Up above, the Benefactor looked down on the still body of the alien. What it thought of the corpse, Wallace could only guess. He did have an inkling of what would happen next, however, and _that_ he did not relish.

A crack of light appeared in the oval above. The hidden hinges began to swing open, and Wallace fought every urge to look away. _Look it in the face. Know it._ He communicated with his Benefactors over screen often enough to know what they looked like, but to actually stand in one's presence … Wallace's knees trembled.

The oval swung open, slowly, pressure escaping from the inside at an impressive rate. Wallace saw the face first, lime green and featureless, smooth like a larva, some kind of breathing apparatus clamped over where its mouth must be. It lacked eyes, yet an optical enhancement mounted to the right side of its almost-face let it see. It lacked arms or legs, but Wallace knew that it did not need them. It descended from its shell slowly, air rippling in its wake, no arms or legs to carry it. It did not even wriggle, like a worm would. It simply floated, the size of a small elephant, the only real motion being the camera mounted to its front, which darted between the body and Wallace himself.

Wallace watched, jaw clamped, as the creature grew closer to him, slowly. Now, if he reached out, he could touch it. But that would never be allowed. The Benefactor let forth a burst of intention, and Wallace took a step back. The Benefactor inched closer to the alien corpse.

A tongue, translucent, narrow, and hollow, slid from beneath the mask. The alien corpse, previously motionless, suddenly jerked once before floating into the air. The Benefactor brought it before its approximation of a face, the camera sliding up and down as it gazed upon the alien up close. The tongue, moving to and fro like a cobra about to strike, reached forward and prodded the cranium once. The alien's head lulled sickeningly, and Wallace could not help but note the similarity in its proportions to that of a human baby. _No. That's not an image I need._ Wallace's eyes watered as he stared at his Benefactor, whose tongue again prodded the alien's limp skull. Wallace knew what came next.

With a swiftness that made Wallace queasy, the questing tongue shot forward. Green blood spurted from the wound as the Benefactor drove its appendage deep inside the creature's skull. The tongue began to pulsate, and Wallace tried not to dwell on the sounds he could hear. Specifically, those of … slurping. This went on for several moments before the Benefactor ripped the tongue free from the gaping wound, letting green dribble down its tongue and the creature's skull. Speckles of dull color fell on to the floor before him.

The Benefactor, liquid still dribbling from its tongue, let the alien fall to the floor. It crumpled like a discarded rag doll, falling lifeless. The camera now turned to Wallace, their eyes linking. The Benefactor made its intentions clear.

 _Live specimens._ It made sense. Only so much information could be gathered from a corpse.

"I shall alert our forces," said Wallace, not precisely certain how they would incapacitate and capture such creatures. _The Universal Union tends to emphasize lethality in its kit._ "I shall also bring the corpse to Dr. Tygan, to better analyze its physiology."

The Benefactor's tongue slid out. Wallace got the impression that there was much inside the head of Dr. Tygan that the Universal Union would like to have firsthand. _He is much too valuable. They all are._ The Benefactor spoke, in its own fashion, and Wallace heard.

"So, this was just a scout?" Wallace looked down at the pathetic body his Benefactor had cast aside. _A pity. Too much to hope for a leader, then._ "What did he know, then? What are their intentions?"

If the Benefactor could be amused, well, this was close to it. Wallace could almost feel the mocking edge to its barrage of thought and intention.

"How could it know so little?" Wallace glanced down at it again. "The weapons it brought to bear-"

The Benefactor's mocking thoughts became hard, visceral. Wallace looked back at the two soldiers, who watched the proceedings with all the life and energy of stone statues. _If we plucked their thoughts, what would they know?_ Wars were not thought with thinking soldiers any longer. Not even these invaders had any use for the independence of their underlings, it seemed. _Was humanity really so special?_ For some reason, Wallace began to blink back tears.

The Benefactor lowered itself further. Wallace watched it descend almost to eye level, its face uncomfortably close to his. The tongue slipped out, and Wallace resisted the urge to shut his eyes. The Benefactor's tongue began to loll this way and that.

"They are here to sow general chaos and mayhem, and the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch _will_ repulse them." Wallace tried to smile, but only managed a sort of weak grimace. The tongue did not stop moving. "We will increase surveillance on all cities. If they attack again, we will lock down the area and dispatch troops to combat them."

The Benefactor had doubts. Some more blood dribbled on the floor. The tongue did not stop moving.

"We will form an extraterrestrial combat unit arm of the Overwatch," said Wallace. "We will not let up on the Resistance, which remains carefully monitored, nor will we cease resource extraction here on Earth. The enemy forces will be found and dealt with."

"Expunge," said a soldier from behind him.

"Cauterize," said the other. Wallace did not turn around. His eyes were on the Benefactor's. Slowly, with great hesitation, the being began to ascend, the tongue slipping back beneath the breathing apparatus.

There was a very simple fix to their little alien problem. A quick surge of reinforcements from the Overworld, complete with spacefaring weapons and vehicles, would put a quick end to any threats on the planet. If necessary, they could even secure the entire solar system, or the galaxy, if they had to. But that was expensive. It did not matter how many Overwatch died. Or citizens. And, if the problem were dealt with promptly, the assimilation of these new aliens could even be … profitable.

But … if the problem were not dealt with promptly…

"There is no need for that," called out Wallace, voice cracking slightly. "Only one sector has been attacked. We will alert all forces. This problem _will_ be dealt with."

On that, the Benefactor agreed. It was simply how the problem would be dealt with that their opinions differed.

The Benefactor slid back into its metal cocoon, the hinges swinging back in again as it resumed its quiet reverie. As the doors swung shut, it let forth one last burst of intention. A haunting reminder.

"Live specimens," said Wallace, licking his lips. "Understood."


	4. Missing In Action

_And that's three._ John Bradford remained perfectly still on the tree's thick branch, his rifle sighted carefully at the target below him. Engaging it would be madness, but if it did see him, he would at least have the first shot. Across from him, her shotgun laid neatly across her lap, Jane Kelly watched John's every movement, likely hoping to pick up new tricks. Most people would have kept their attention on the creature below.

It always struck John as unfair that the hunters, nearly eight foot tall killing machines, opted to travel in groups of three. Just one could overwhelm any human, or even group of humans, but the Combine never fell short of manpower, nor the desire to use it. The hunter below shifted in place, the large antennae on its back twitching. Aside from its muffled shuffling, all John could hear were the sounds of blissfully ignorant birdsong, and the sound of wind through the leaves.

The hunter let out a single electronic whoop, something that never failed to send a shiver down John's spine. He grimaced as another whoop was returned, roughly a quarter of a mile to the east if he was any judge. _Good. Their movements have been consistent so far._ The hunter's two vertically aligned eyes swiveled this way and that, but its physiology made it difficult to see upward – it would have to angle its entire body towards the sky. The hunter instead simply cantered back and forth, making soft electronic chirrups as it completed its sweep. Then, as if called by some unseen signal, it cantered off into the bushes.

Kelly lifted her right hand and showed three fingers. Her brown eyebrows disappeared beneath her beanie. John gave her a thumbs up and then raised two fingers of his own. _Two minutes. Should be enough to maximize the amount of time the hunters spend running around._ The distraction team had not reacted with enthusiasm upon being told they would be deliberately attracting hunters. John made sure to emphasize where the real danger was.

 _We'll have about fifteen minutes. Maybe. Enough to do some damage._ He scratched one of the old scars on his face, and then ran a finger down the length of it, cheek to jawbone. _We're not adding any more today. Okay?_

Jane Kelly suddenly held up a fist. At first, John did not hear anything. A few seconds later, he caught it. _Chopper blades. Helicopter or gunship?_ In the Outlands, it could be either. _Is my hearing really going that badly?_ Probably too much close-by gunfire and explosions. _At least I can still see okay._

The sound of the chopper grew louder. John glanced up, grimacing, hoping it would just pass on by. They were in no condition to deal with Combine air support. _First pass this bastard has made in a week of surveillance. Did they catch on to us? Is something up?_ A blast of sound from above answered his question.

"Vital alert: anomalous biotics confirmed. Redeploying Outland Sector 17 Overwatch to urban regions. Stand by for further instruction. Code: Analyze. Clamp. Protect."

The hunter chopper passed overhead at a speed that suggested it was urgently needed elsewhere. The message looped twice more, becoming fainter as it went. John cocked an eyebrow at Jane, who shrugged.

"Wasn't me," she whispered.

"Less Outland activity can only be good for us." John glanced down at his watch. _Ten seconds._ He looked back up with a grin."You ready?"

"Oh yeah." Kelly returned his grin with a flourish. John gave her the nod. She adjusted the mic at her lips. "Moe, do it."

On cue, the sound of distant gunfire erupted a ways to the southwest of their location. _Good, it carries nicely._ The chatter went on for several seconds before terminating in a few sharp bursts. Another electronic whoop echoed from the east of them, returned twice more before falling silent.

"They're on the hunt. Get out of there!" Jane flicked the mic to the side of her face and then began lowering herself. John followed suit, ignoring the twinge in his knees and making sure his AR2 remained secured on its sling. They fell to the ground with a crunching of leaves underfoot.

"Move." Jane took point, shotgun at the ready. John pressed himself against each tree and covered her, checking for any movement. It might have been unnecessary, but they had already had one unexpected helicopter today. Knowing their luck, a second group of hunters might have shown up since yesterday.

The trees gave way to the lip of a small cliff. Below them, what John liked to think of as an "augmented" settlement. There were plenty of little shacks and abandoned village scattered throughout the area, long picked clean of anything useful. The Combine occasionally liked to move in where convenient or useful, implementing a few of their own personal touches to make the village more defensible. The additions were always quite noticeable.

Here, a tower made out of that blasted blue-black metal the Combine were so fond of, twisting out of the ground like some mutant tree. A single guard stood at the top, rifle in his arms. _Good. If it doesn't get damaged in the fall, we can use that._ The others, six by John's count, patrolled below. At present, John could only see three, all of which stood at the southwest portion of the village, staring out in the direction of the gunfire. _Backs turned. Good._

"Tell Ramirez she's cleared to engage." John did not turn to Jane as he spoke, instead sighting down the closest soldier he could see on the ground. "The tower, first. Tell her not to miss this time."

"Ramirez!" hissed Jane. "Take down the guy on the tower!"

"Quick and quiet." John could just barely hear Ana's reply over the radio. He certainly did not hear the report of her own weapon, a jerry-rigged crossbow, nor did he see the bolt travelling to the target. The cry of the soldier and the sudden turn of his fellows told him all he needed to know.

"Weapons free!" John let loose a burst of fire from his pulse rifle. The meaty report sounded like music to his ears, and the spurt of red from his target the applause. He fired two more sharp bursts, the rounds peppering the ground around the target as he began to hustle to the nearest cover, a broken-down tractor. The other two scattered, the dull vocoded radio chatter not quite carrying to John's location. He was sure he could get the gist of it. _Anticitizens. Alert, alert. Exterminate, exterminate._

"We have fifteen minutes to do this, let's go!" John motioned for Jane to move. If they weren't on a bit of a time limit, he would normally hold on to the elevated position for as long as possible. In this case, they didn't have time, and they did have one excellent trump card. "Toss a frag into that house on the right and clear it, I'll take these other guys."

They dashed down the slope, legs carrying them while gravity dragged them forward. John collided with the wooden fence surrounding the perimeter at nearly full force, flattening himself against it and preparing to circle around.

"Two, from the north!" called out Jane. "Ramirez, drop one! Osei, where are you?"

A sharp burst of gunfire from the east answered that question. _A neat flank._ A soldier called out, his voice cutting short with a grunt. _Two down. They all sound the same when they die._ John circled around the corner of the fence. A stretch of road greeted him ahead. Osei's gunfire did not stop, and John could hear the familiar metallic rustling of the Overwatch as they repositioned themselves, giving calm reports all the while.

"Overwatch, sector is not controlled. We have active anticitizens. Requesting reserve activation."

"Bouncer, bouncer!"

A sharp bang came from behind John, all the glass in the building breaking in unison. Jane's shotgun blasts followed the din, and John smiled to himself. _So far, so good._ He swung around the corner, weapon at the ready. Another trooper stood before him, submachine gun braced against a generator, firing at the window of the recently bombed building. John aimed for the face.

 _Eat shit._ Two quick bursts, brap brap. The first made the soldier wheel around, blood running down its shattered mask, the second made it fall with a familiar muffled grunt. John slinked back into his corner, tapping his rifle on the side. It reloaded with a series of satisfying metallic clinks. Osei's gunfire kept up all the while.

"Two, out in the open, heading your way!"

John peeked his head out and swore. He shifted right as the wood around him splintered, rounds punching through the decaying material and where he would have been if he were terminally stupid. He pulled a grenade free from his bandolier, ripped the pin out, and pulled the tab. With a grunt, he tossed it overhead, the LED light leaving a crimson trail in his vision.

"Bouncer! Back up!" John grinned and kept his sights on the road ahead. If they were stupid enough to round the corner … but they were never stupid enough. In a head on fight, what someone would call a "fair" one, he knew who always won.

The grenade burst in a shower of metal. _No fatalities. Shame._ And they still hadn't swung around the corner. John shifted in the other direction, hoping his teammates would pick up these last two. Several further shotgun blasts raised his hopes.

 _Come on. We don't have much longer._ The fence gave way to an open stretch that led behind several buildings, each more decrepit looking than the last. Osei's gunfire had stopped, but Jane had stopped firing. _Come on, Kelly …_ He peeked from the edge of the fence, and saw only bodies. With a sigh, he darted from cover.

The reaction came immediately. John's heart practically burst as he realized with a shock, as even old soldier did, that _holy shit, they are shooting at me! They could kill me!_ But he kept running, breathing growing ragged as the anxiety jacked up a notch. He flattened himself against the closest building, watching the ground he had just trod on puff up from the impacts of bullets. This time, he did hear a muffled _fwump_ from Ramirez's weapon.

"Got one!"

John smiled, then realized his hand felt warm. He looked down at his side. _Ah, shit._ Sticky red came away from his hand as he pulled it away, and he suddenly felt his legs wobble.

"Outbreak, outbreak, out- argh!" _One more for Jane Kelly._ John tried to smile, but it wasn't quite coming. _Gotta get this treated quick._

"All clear!" John could hear Jane's footfalls, the crunch of combat boots on gravel. "Ramirez, get down here, we've got like seven minutes. Bradford! Bradford!"

"I'm hit!" called out John. "I need a medkit." He slid against the wall, likely leaving a streak of red as he went down. _Shit, this never gets easier._ His vision darkened for a moment. Seemed like a good time for a nap.

The familiar hot sting woke him right up.

"Fuck!" John started, feeling life (and pain) flowing back into his veins and nerves. He looked up to see Jane with a cheeky gun and a syringe, looking down at him.

"I got two, Osei got one, and Ana got two. What does that leave you with?"

"One," groaned John, feeling for his side. The blood remained, but the wound did not. Still, the skin always felt tender afterwards. "Just one."

" _And_ you got shot. You're slowing down." If Kelly expected this to cheer John up, well, it didn't. _Age comes to us all. Well, the lucky ones._ He could recall a salty old colonel who'd served in both Iraq Wars, back in the day. Something he said always stuck with him. _Cherish getting old, Lieutenant. It's a privilege not everyone gets to enjoy._

"I know." John glared at her. "Help me up. We've got – what? Five minutes? How long was I gone?"

"Five minutes," confirmed Jane, extending a hand. She pulled John up with a grunt. "Just a few seconds, you big baby. What did Uriah say to look out for again?"

"He said we'd know it when we saw it. I'll check out the main building." John dusted himself off. Jane leaned down and plucked his rifle from the ground. He took it sheepishly. "Grab everything we can use. Pulse rifles, blankets, pillows, medical supplies, food, ammunition. I'll take care of the priority." John paused, listening. Something whooped in the distance. It sounded closer than he liked. "Let's do this with a quickness."

"Gotcha – see you in five!" Jane trotted off, shotgun in arms, backpack jiggling on back. Hopefully she wouldn't complain too much when she had to lug the spoils back to White Forest. That went for Ramirez, too.

Speaking of Ramirez, the woman emerged, flushed from the bushes, her crossbow secured on her back. She smiled when she saw John, only for it to turn into a frown of concern when she saw the blood.

"You're-"

"Alive." John jerked a bloody thumb into the village. "Get busy. And good shooting."

"Thanks." The woman hurried onward. John followed her, a little slower than he would have liked. Peter Osei already stood in the village center, shoving fallen Combine weapons into his backpack. He gave the two of them a nod as they jogged by, busy at his task. _Good. Good._ John wondered if Osei had seen the blood.

The main Combine building must have once been a barn. It still stank of hay, even if none remained. John pushed open the door with a grunt, his side twinging. The inside – it still always came as a shock. Wood with Combine terminals mounted on it, the metal and wiring latching on like some parasitic growth. The barn hummed with electricity. An empty weapons rack lined the wall.

What bothered John wasn't that civilian buildings had been adapted for military use. It was the fact that the changes were just tacked on, the old ground down by the new without any regard for converting existing architecture for their purposes. They would simply build alongside rotting buildings until the old fell away and only the Combine remained.

John swept the rest of the place with his eyes. Sure enough, the vort hadn't lied. One of the Combine's people containers occupied the corner of the room, emanating cold. _Probably awaiting transport. Probably someone important._ Generally, VIPs tended to be scientists. Occasionally engineers. People the Combine could steal from. John walked up to the chilly prison, looking it up and down. _Gotta get it open quickly. You better be worth it._ Well, that wouldn't be hard. An easily treatable gunshot wound wasn't much of a price to pay.

John faced the terminal and pressed a single button. The terminal flashed red. _Good. Active._ He pulled his e-mag from his belt, and shielded his eyes. _Just like Ms. Vance showed you. Do it._ The e-mag jumped once, an arc of bright lightning sparking forth. The terminal crackled with energy, the blue display changing to something more … open.

Another electronic whoop sounded from outside, closer. John tapped the keys with a quickness, breathing a little unsteady. His side ached, making his nose wrinkle. _There. Container control. Specimen … unknown? Requesting priority status?_ They had sent a priority message to the Citadel for pickup yesterday, but no one had picked up the phone. _Is something happening in the city?_ Between this and the Overwatch's announcement, it looked likely. John keyed the container's release, hoping that, if nothing else, Wallace Breen would pitch a small fit at this loss. _And who knows? Maybe it's that secret weapon you've always been waiting for._

The container hissed from behind him, the room growing markedly colder as it did so. John folded his arms and watched. Peter Osei sauntered in as the container began to crack open, backpack bulging with God-knew-what.

"By Freeman, we gave them a beating," he crowed, grinning at John. John gave an irritable wave of the hand.

"Forget about Freeman. This one was us." The container began to open, the dark silhouette of a figure now visible from inside. _Shape is definitely human._ "VIP bound for the Citadel, it said. Three guesses as to who we've got here?" _Don't say Gordon Freeman._ Osei only shrugged, smiling. The fog began to clear. John stepped forward, prepared to catch the person if they fell. Instead…

"Well, I don't know this guy," said Osei from behind him, sidling up to John and looking the man in front of them up and down. Clean-shaven, buzz cut, clad in fatigues. "Looks like a relic from the Seven Hour War." Osei nudged John in the ribs. "Kinda like y-"

"Adrian?"

The man slumped forward, unconscious, and John caught him roughly around the shoulders. Osei gaped at the two of them, a mixture of confusion and being impressed flitting across his broad face.

"You know this guy?"

John opened his mouth to answer but the words went unspoken. A sharp alarm sounded, and the terminal flashed red, painting the brown walls of the barn crimson.

"Vital alert: anticitizen presence detected. Mandate retrieval of anomalous signature imprint. All Outland forces converge. Probe. Expunge. Amputate."

"What the fuck?" Jane Kelly ran in, took one look at what was going on, and then began making frantic hand gestures. "Drop the guy, they're gonna come from all directions! We got the crap, let's go!"

John shifted Adrian's body, felt the weight in his arms. He would not be easy to carry, they would be pursued, and there was quite the distance between here and White Forest. But he heard the clink of dog tags beneath his fatigues. _Yeah. It's him._

"No man left behind." John hoisted him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Radio White Forest to pull out the vorts and whoever they can spare. I left this man at Black Mesa, I'm not leaving him here."

"What?" But Jane Kelly complied, furiously storming out of the barn, practically shouting at home base to send out their best, they would have _everything_ bearing down on them. Osei merely followed John out, gawping. Ramirez ran at them from another building, waving her arms, a pillow precariously peeking out from her half-open backpack.

"Out! We're leaving!" John jogged as fast as he could back the way they came. Something whooped from behind him, _way_ too close by. "Airwatch and all available ground forces _will_ converge on this location. We have to go!"

"But who's the guy?" asked Ana. John did not answer. He was saving his breath for his push up the hill. For the miles to come, possibly with hostiles in pursuit.

"VIP!" shouted Kelly, easily catching up to John. "We take him back to White Forest! Haul ass!"

John grunted, the body weighing him down more than he'd like to admit. The sweat formed freely on his brow, not helped by two more whoops in quick succession from behind them – likely in the village they had just vacated.

Branches whipped by his face as he jogged, back aching, legs burning, Adrian dangling. The others kept the pace but did not hurry ahead of him, Osei periodically checking back with his pulse rifle. _Alternate fire. Take the first one down quick and make them think about just trying to run us down._

Another whoop ripped through the forest. This time a scream answered it. _Shit!_

"Down! Down, one's ahead of us!"

The four of them threw themselves to the ground and rolled under the brush. Adrian landed, lifeless, atop John, forcing him to crawl awkwardly to somewhere half-hidden. He left Adrian in place, shifting the sling and moving his rifle into place. Something akin to giggling, only demonic and cybernetic, came from somewhere on his left. A stick crunched underfoot. Very heavy underfoot.

Hunters looked even bigger from beneath the ground. And they had no problems looking beneath them. At least, when prone and covered by forest debris, they were less likely to see you right away. The hunter emerged from behind the trees, its massive feet leaving heavy imprints on the leaves. Its two blue eyes swiveled this way and that, searching the ground. It beeped twice before letting out a low growl. Ana whimpered from somewhere close to John.

The hunter let out a long, low note. Somewhere behind John, another answered. A second set of heavy footfalls let him know that one more member of the pack was accounted for. The second beeped twice and growled, its footsteps growing closer. John shut his eyes and tried to control his breathing. _They're going to find us. The trick is making that initial engagement more costly for them than for us._

The hunter in front of him growled again, taking a step forward. John inched his barrel upward a tad, hand feeling for the orb release button. _One shot. All it takes. Slight delay on firing._ In the corner of his eye, Osei similarly adjusted from flat on his belly, facing the opposite direction. The hunter's feelers at the bottom of its face twitched. It stepped forward, face scanning the ground. It gave a low whoop. John began to apply pressure to the button.

"No-"

Low reports from the right! John pressed the button and the orb ripped free. It smashed into the hunter and made it scream one final time, its body dissolving before John's eyes. Only … where was the blood coming from? And what was that high-pitched whine?

The other hunter screamed, and John jumped up, leaving Adrian where he lay. _Don't get trampled on._ Peter Osei lay pinned against the ground, several quivering blue flechettes lodged in his bloody sternum, weapon lying uselessly out of his reach. He looked up at John, pointed up the hill. The third hunter whooped triumphantly. The flechettes quivered more violently.

"No!"

The flechettes burst, sending chunks of Osei flying everywhere. John shielded his eyes and ducked behind the closest tree, swearing. The back of tree burst open, sending bark flying everywhere.

"Ramirez, aim for the eyes and don't stay out in the open! Don't let them get close! Bring them down!" Her crossbow was the best weapon they had without Osei. He and Jane would just have to make due.

The hunters called out back and forth. John could not see them now, but he could hear their legs making noises like pistons. He circled around the tree, weapon at the ready, trying to keep his distance from Adrian. If he was hit, no reason to take the poor man with him.

"One, coming down the slope!"

John whipped around in time to see Ana's bolt fly wide. The hunter shifted to its hind leg and fired, a stream of flechettes leaving a trail of blue in his vision. John squeezed the trigger, pocking the hunter's face with holes. It screamed angrily and repositioned itself. Then it lowered its head.

John dove for the side. The hunter screeched past, cackling like some cybernetic chimpanzee. It stopped about ten feet in front of John. He lit it up, the antennae twisting this way and that as John filled it with pulse.

"One behind!" Jane's shotgun repeated three times, and he could hear her heavy breathing. "Ramirez, calm the fuck down and sight the target properly, we've still got this!"

"Watch out!"

More reports from behind. John dove to the ground and resumed firing. The hunter wheeled around and briefly scanned for John before spotting him on the ground. John expected it to start firing, he even began to roll. Instead it lowered its head again. _Oh no. Oh no!_

The hunter cackled once more, clear fluid leaking from its wounds. The underbrush became a frenzy of plants trampled underfoot as the creature closed the distance. John rose to his feet just in time for it to reach him.

The hunter's head struck him full force, sending him flying backwards. His padded armor absorbed some of the blow, but all that meant was that maybe one less rib just broke. John slammed against a tree and slid to the ground, lungs heaving as his windpipe shut. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ He felt for his sidearm and drew it, part of his mind crystallizing into something pure and calm. _Is this it?_

The hunter chortled again and sidled up to the tree. It could easily have finished him with flechettes. Its under arms, sharp and strong like a mantis, flicked out. _And they say the Combine don't feel anything._

The hunter stumbled, something quivering against its side. A red hot piece of rebar, fletched, jammed into it. The hunter groaned and tried to get its balance. John sighted his pistol and fired once, twice, three times, directly into its eyes. The hunter let out a massive screech and fell to the floor, twitching. That left only one.

"Ana, behind you!"

John's head lolled in place. Ana, still fitting a bolt into the crossbow, wheeled around. The hunter's underarms shot forward so fast they blurred, piercing her abdomen on either side. The hunter lifted her arm as she wriggled like a bug caught on the end of a stick, screaming all the while. The hunter's blades emerged from the other side, through her back. Then, with a cackle, the hunter flung Ramirez aside, blood flying in her wake.

"Fuck you!" Sparks erupted from the hunter's side, once, twice, three times, the buckshot clearly having trouble piercing the armor. The hunter screamed again, in fury and in triumph. Jane Kelly, emerging from the trees, face bloody, squeezed the trigger again. The gun clicked once. _No…_ John lifted his pistol and fired. The shot went hopelessly wild. The hunter did not even turn.

Jane threw her shotgun aside and ripped her machete clear of the scabbard on her back. She lifted it in what was likely an imitation of something she had seen in a samurai movie. John grimaced. _I think we're doomed._ The hunter seemed to agree, as it chortled once more and lowered its head. The creature charged at full speed.

Jane waited until the last second. Then, in a flurry of motion, stepped aside, but kept the tip of the blade level with the hunter's face. Both the hunter and Jane screamed as the two made contact, Jane's arm wrenched backwards with a crack as she fell to the ground. The hunter gave an ear-piercing scream that made John's heart flutter. It fell in a flurry of twisted limbs and metal, thrashing, the machete lodged about a foot deep into its eye. With a final heave, it gave a low electronic whine and fell silent and still.

John coughed once, his insides feeling pulverized. _Need a medkit. Internal damage._ His arm fell by his side, but he still tried to point to Ana. _Her … first._ His lips formed the words, but nothing came out. Jane, one arm grabbing the other, staggered towards John, eyes lighting up with relief when she saw he was still alive. John mouthed Ramirez's name.

"Gone," grunted Jane. "Almost cut in half." With her good arm, she reached for something at her belt. The syringe pressed into John's arm, sending liquid fire through his veins. "Won't be enough. Have to carry you…"

But she couldn't carry him. Even without a broken arm. John opened his mouth to protest, but strong arms lifted him up. A loud buzzing filled his ears, and he could not help but feel a small surge of relief. _It's not my responsibility anymore._ The darkness crowded in, and John Bradford welcomed it more than he would ever admit.

Later, impossible to tell how much later, his eyes opened. The ground beneath them, green and brown, crunching underneath heavy boots. Strong shoulders held him up. Strong hands kept him balanced. John's head lolled, but he could not see clearly.

"Who's … got me?" John asked, the words coming out in a croak.

Whoever it was hoisted him once, bringing him more securely on their back. Someone cleared their throat.

"Well, they call me Shephard," he said, his voice young but confident. "Don't know what's going on, but that's been the case for a while now. This isn't Black Mesa, is it?"

"No," said John, the dark reaching the corners of his vision again. "No, it is not."

"Good." This man, Adrian Shephard, chuckled with genuine mirth. "Things are looking up, then."


	5. A Black Mesa Welcome

Barney's head pounded. His mouth felt fuzzy and dry. The damn thing in the sack grew heavier by the second. And the air outside buzzed with more scanners than he had ever seen in his life. _Hope the doc's got the lab wrapped up tight._ Barney paused. _Well, okay. I hope Alyx has got the lab wrapped up tight._ Dr. Kleiner had been so absorbed by the damn teleport that he sometimes forgot to eat, sleep, or bathe. Barney half-suspected his own find would still be eclipsed by the upcoming completion of that damn project. _And it better work this time…_

Dragging the sack behind him, Barney limped down the stairs, every inch of him feeling sore. His vision ached from the lack of sleep. He hung a left and sighed in relief. The vending machine looked undisturbed, and he had never been happier to see it. Fumbling in his pockets, he pulled out a coin and slotted it in place. Squinting, he made his order. _Two, seven, five, six, five, two. Like it makes a difference, Breen, it's all water!_ He hit the side of the vending machine a little harder than usual. The door opened silently.

"Hey doc!" he bellowed, grunting as he pulled the sack in from behind him. "I'm home!"

"Barney! Oh my God." To Barney's total lack of surprise, Alyx was the first to rush over, her forehead wrinkled by a very genuine and sudden concern. "Were you in a fire? We thought you were…"

"Barney!" Dr. Kleiner emerged from the hidden sliding door at the opposite end of the room, finger already raised to wag. "Good grief, we've been waiting for you to check in for hours! Alyx was poised to go looking for you, and we were beginning to suspect…" Dr. Kleiner paused, just noticing the sack Barney was dragging behind him. The vending machine door behind them shut with a clunk. "Barney, ah, what exactly are you…?"

"Present for ya, doc." With a flourish, Barney whipped the sack around and upended it. E.T. fell out in a cluster of tangled purple limbs, looking more like a doll of an alien than anything else … were it not for the green holes in its torso. Barney flung the sack aside with a sigh, head still pounding. "Doc, I need a beer."

"Barney?" Dr. Kleiner stared down at the body in muffled shock, one hand reaching to adjust his glasses. "Oh dear. What have you done?"

"Is that…?" Alyx prodded it gently with her foot. Then again, harder. The creature made a strange fleshy sound. "Ugh. It's real. I've never seen this species before. Some new kind of synth?"

"Nah," called back Barney, heading to the corner where the fridge resided. He pulled the door open with a grunt, then reached inside for the second-to-last bottle. _Looks like Alyx has been at them again. Swear I had three this morning._ "That thing shot up two CP teams and wrecked an entire city block. Pretty sure it mind-controlled a guy, too. I was the last man standing. Figured I'd bring it back." Barney returned to Alyx and Kleiner's side at the corpse, popping off the cap with a gloved thumb. "By the way, I abandoned my cover. It was that or start answering the Combine's questions on a one-on-one basis."

"So … this is not the Combine?" Kleiner adjusted his glasses again. "Fascinating … if I didn't know better, I would say the old Roswell sighting weren't a load of hogwash after all! Only … between Black Mesa and the Seven Hour War … we're a little crowded on aliens. Surely this cannot be a third invasion?"

"Roswell?" Alyx raised an eyebrow. "So, there were alien sightings before Black Mesa?"

"Plenty," said Barney, remembering. He'd owned a few books on the subject, back in the day. If Black Mesa and the Seven Hour War had done anything, other than ruin his life, it was vindicate a lot of his beliefs. "None confirmed, though. But the idea of bug-eyed aliens with gray skin, flying around in saucers and probing people – it matches up with this little bastard."

"The existence of aliens like this one used to be the domain of madmen and conspiracy theorists," said Dr. Kleiner, giving Barney a meaningful glance. Barney just took a sip of beer. "This, hrm, creature, matches up what the pre-Combine western public would have thought an alien looked like. Needless to say, that is no longer the case, given that we live in a world of vortigaunts and the Combine."

"Sounds like these guys might have visited before." Alyx crouched down and turned the creature over. Its half-opened eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling. "Ugh. Smells like bleach. It shot up an entire city block?"

"It's the reason the Citadel's on alert," replied Barney, gesturing up at the shuttered windows on the upper level with his beer. "Took out two CP teams. Had some kind of energy weapon, but the body wasn't holding anything. Sure as shit would have liked to get my hands on whatever he was packing." Barney looked over to Kleiner, who still kept a slight distance from the body. "So, doc, figured we might wanna crack this thing open, see what we can learn?"

"What?" Dr. Kleiner took another step back. "I – oh my. Biology, and certainly not xenobiology, is not my forte. As a physicist, I don't know how … digging through that creature's internal organs … would enlighten me." Kleiner frowned. "Alyx, my dear, is Moira still working at Black Mesa East?"

"Dr. Vahlen?" Alyx broke into a grin. "Oh, yeah. You should see her and the vortigaunts go at it. Never seen anyone get them riled up like that. Yeah, she was still there when I left. Are you thinking…" Alyx looked down at the creature. "Hmm. Yeah, she'd love to see this."

"Great." Barney took another sip of beer. "So, we just gotta pack this thing up and ship it downriver. Feeling up to it, Alyx?"

Alyx opened her mouth, but Dr. Kleiner broke in with a clucking sound.

"No! No. We are too close to completion of the teleport! I need Alyx here to acquire what is left of the required materials and make sure the device maintains full integrity. Barney, I simply cannot spare her."

"Well…" Barney shut his eyes, head pounding. He took another sip of beer. "Hell, maybe someone from the Railroad can take it? I can get it to them and they can take the airboat…?"

Silence greeted his words. The two of them looked at him meaningfully. Barney swirled the beer in the half-empty bottle.

"Aw, hell."

"We could always just wait until the teleport is finished, doc," said Alyx, but Kleiner shook his head.

"My dear, that could take another week at least. By then, who knows what state of decomposition it will be in?" Kleiner sniffed. "Unless … the body is small. We could stuff it in the refrigerator to slow the proc-"

Alyx clamped her hands over her face. "God, no."

"It's fine, doc. I'll take the damn thing." Barney resisted the urge to kick the dead alien in its smug, smooth little bastard face. "Not like I'll have anything else to do, now that CP thinks I'm dead. I should still have clearance for a little while, 'til they upgrade the records. I shouldn't have too much trouble getting out of the city."

"You think you'll be okay?" asked Alyx, resting a hand on his shoulder. Barney gave her a little smile.

"Yeah. Gimme a few hours of sleep, another one of these," Barney wiggled the beer bottle, "and I'll be good to go." He sniffed. "Eh, maybe a shower too, while I'm at it."

"All right." Alyx removed her hand. "Doc, I've gotta pick a few more things up for the shopping list. Now that Barney's back, I guess I'll head out."

"Yes," said Kleiner absentmindedly, shuffling back and forth as he stared down at the crumpled body on the floor. "Yes, I suppose so. In the meantime, I'll just … put this in the back room." He glanced up at Barney, nose and forehead wrinkling. "Go get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's dark, and radio Eli the situation."

"Yeah, figure he'll want to hear about this." Barney downed the rest of the bottle and stretched, bones cracking. "I'll be in the back."

As he stumbled off, he heard Doctor Kleiner grunt and lift the creature from the floor.

"Fascinating," Kleiner mumbled. "In all this excitement over the extra-dimensional, we forgot about the possibility of the extra-terrestrial. This gives rise to a whole host of new questions … and possibilities!"

 _Man. If Black Mesa can't kill that guy's thought processes, I guess nothing will._ Barney retreated into the back corner of the lab, underneath the upstairs balcony. It wasn't quite dark, but it would have to do. He fumbled for the sleeping bag and unrolled it. He though it would be difficult to sleep in his full metrocop getup, but it really wasn't. A soft dark settled in quickly, and he fell quite asleep.

His dreams were electric and green. A man stepped purposefully through it all, ignored by the distant silhouettes of E.T. and the Combine soldiers alike, a briefcase in his hand. He looked familiar, somehow. Two shadows stood behind him at either shoulder, both of them in some kind of armor, one orange and the other green. With a gesture, the green one on his right vanished, fading away in a shimmer of emerald. The other remained. Barney's breathing became heavy. His heart began to pound. For some reason, and he could not define why, he did not want that man near him. But of course, he drew nearer.

"Wake up, Mr. Calhoun." The gentleman with the briefcase leaned in, suddenly somehow much closer to Barney than he had been a few seconds before. "I have a message for Dr. Vance."

Barney opened his mouth to speak, but could only suck in a deep breath. The gentleman smiled. His mouth opened, but the words were swallowed up by the roar of a strider. Gunfire and bright green energy lit up the night, and the gentleman stood and smiled. He straightened his tie.

"That will do, I think." His bright green eyes locked with Barney's. "No further comment."

"Barney. Barney!"

Barney awoke with a start, his back aching. Dr. Kleiner stood over him, a clipboard in hand.

"Barney, Eli is on the line. He wants to speak to you."

"How long I been out?" asked Barney, standing and rubbing his head.

"Seven hours. Just enough time to conquer the world." Dr. Kleiner smiled, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He gestured with his clipboard to the other room. The hidden door was open. "Do hurry. I would prefer to get that … thing … out of the city and away from the Combine as soon as possible."

"Yeah," said Barney, stretching again and shambling off into the other room. "Headcrabs are fine, but poor E.T.?"

Eli Vance's face stared out from the monitor directly ahead of Barney. Eli gave a warm grin upon seeing Barney, something that never failed to make him feel better.

"Barney! It's good to see you in one piece. I heard you had a run-in with some unfriendly visitors?"

"Yeah, it's the newest wave of aliens here to harvest our oceans, doc." Barney pulled up a chair and sat before the monitor, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I tried to get Kleiner to dissect it, but he told me dammit, Barney, I'm a physicist, not a doctor."

"A common refrain," replied Eli, chuckling. "We all have our specialties. Izzy said our new friend opened fire on the Combine?"

"Damn right he did. Totaled an entire block with some kind of energy weapon."

"Interesting." Eli rubbed the hair on his chin. "The vortigaunts said something had arrived on our planet. Touched down on the coast, even. We've been trying to raise NLO and Shore Point, but got no response. Between that and what you've found … it might be best if we gathered as much information as possible."

Something itched in the back of Barney's mind. He tried to dismiss it.

"Do you think you can make the journey?" asked Eli, concern etched into his tone. "If we could spare Alyx, we would. But we're so damn close to our breakthrough here."

"Sure, I can make the journey," said Barney, trying not to make a big deal out of it. "Few bends up and down the canals, and I'll be home free. Right?"

"Just a few bends," agreed Eli, but Barney could sense (and appreciate) the worry. "We'll set up some quarters for you. Keep the tea hot. And I'll let Moira know she's got something new to work with. Maybe keep her busy and away from the Ravenholm tunnel. She's convinced she can still do something for the poor souls up there."

 _Only cure for what ails those bastards is bullets._ But Barney held his tongue. Eli was one of a handful of people who deserved it.

"I'll head on down. Expect me." Barney paused, thinking. The itch grew stronger. "I … swear I had something to say to you, doc. But it isn't coming."

"Well, if it can wait, you can tell it to me in person." Eli smiled again. "No luck?"

"Can't remember." Barney shrugged. "Ah, well. First thing to go is memory. Can't remember the second thing. I'll see you soon."

"See you soon. I'll be praying for you." Eli's face winked out in a flutter of static. Barney sighed and wandered back out into the main lab. Dr. Kleiner looked up from his clipboard pointed to the closet in the back of the room.

"In there. Put it in a spare body bag. Water-proof, you know." He held up a finger. "Perhaps it might be prudent to take the HEV suit? If you run into trouble…?"

"Doc, if I wear that thing, I am guaranteed to run into trouble." Barney punched in the three digit code to the shuttered closet door. It opened with a rustle of metal. "It's bright orange. Way I see it, I stick to civvies, at least I won't be picked out at a distance. And I intend to keep a-" Barney stopped. The body bag lay half-opened in a corner. E.T.'s head would have been exposed … if a headcrab did not currently perch atop it.

"Hey!" Barney stepped forward and waved his arms, only to scream as the headcrab launched itself forward. Its rubbery limbs gripped his face, and Barney flung it aside. "Goddammit, not this shit again!"

The headcrab landed with a muffled thud. It gave an indignant cry before leaping forward again, this time up to the balcony. An old monitor sitting atop a crate wobbled precariously as the headcrab climbed up next to it.

"Lamarr? What were you doing back there?" Dr. Kleiner lowered his clipboard and ventured forward, entirely unconcerned with Barney's wellbeing. "Was she-"

"Trying to head hump E.T.!" Barney wiped his face clean of headcrab gunge. "Ugh. When are you going to get rid of that thing, doc? It's, it's contaminating the specimens!"

"She is debeaked and completely harmless, more so even than a common housecat." Dr. Kleiner folded his arms. "I do not recall you having any problems when we kept a cat here."

Barney shivered. "Don't remind me. And I wasn't thrilled about the cat either."

The headcrab stared down at the two of them, making soft cooing sounds. Dr. Kleiner patted the top of his bald head, and the headcrab jumped down, colliding with Kleiner's head with a soft squish. The scientist gave a soft "hmph" of condescending triumph before returning to his clipboard, his "pet" still trying fruitlessly to couple with its owner's head.

"Not gonna miss that. No headcrabs in Black Mesa East." Barney returned to the closet and zipped E.T. back up. Then he folded the body bag in half and slotted it into a waiting backpack. It left precious little room for anything else. _Gonna have to make this a quick trip._

Barney hefted the backpack and began searching the shelves for portable supplies he knew they could spare. Two cans of tuna went onto the pack. A can of beans. Some bottled water. And finally, returning to the fridge, the last bottle of beer. It wouldn't stay cold, but it was better than nothing.

Dr. Kleiner, headcrab still affixed to his cranium, brought out a freshly ironed citizen's outfit.

"Alyx thought you wouldn't want the HEV suit," said Dr. Kleiner. Barney figured the doc would not have thought of it. "She hoped to get back before you left…"

"Probably for the best. Combine doesn't like citizens travelling in anything bigger than a group of one." Barney accepted the clothes and made back for the closet. "I'll get changed and then head out."

Nothing else jumped out at Barney this time. He left his CP uniform in a crumpled and sweaty heap, a little glad to be rid of it. The Kevlar did nothing to stop those green alien blasts, and it didn't do much against pulse slugs either. He'd take the discretion any day. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little exposed as the blue shirt settled against his chest.

Finally, the last thing; the submachine gun. That he packed into his bag after checking the safety, and hoped he wouldn't be given a reason to take it out. _Gonna need more ammo for it._ Hopefully that was something the Railroad could tend to.

"I'm good to go, doc." Barney stepped out a new man, just another ordinary citizen. Dr. Kleiner looked up, Lamarr's limbs still tangled about his face.

"Ah, good!" He shunted the headcrab off his head and approached Barney, hands wringing. "The Citadel is still on alert, but their attention appears to be mostly elsewhere. Alyx said that the checkpoints are being reinforced, but she could make her way around less populated areas easily. I … hope that proves helpful. Do you have everything?"

"Gun, check. Food, check. Water, check. Beer, check. Alien corpse, check." Barney flashed a thumbs up.

"Crowbar?"

Barney paused. "Eh, good idea. Guess I better grab it."

There were plenty of uses for crowbars. At least one of them was opening crates. Barney had found plenty of others. He pried the crowbar, a remnant of his eventful final day at Black Mesa, free from the crate he had left it in. Its edges were pitted, the steel tarnished, and one could make out the dried blood running up and down its length. Barney stowed it in a side pocket anyway and felt better for it.

Dr. Kleiner waited by the entrance, his pet waiting docilely at his feet. Barney did his best to ignore it. He hated it most when the damn thing acted like it was tame. It usually flung itself at Barney's head as soon as he turned his back. Nevertheless, it remained still for the moment.

"If that's everything…" Dr. Kleiner extended his hand. Barney shook it. "Do travel safely. And come back as soon as you are able. Alyx is an able assistant, but I never feel quite … secure … when you're not around."

"Just doing my job." Barney released his grip. "See ya when I see ya, doc."

He proceeded into the dark night, backpack weighing heavily against him. The door clanged shut behind him, and Barney began his journey to the streets below.

There were quite a few ways through the Railroad. Plenty of stations had been set up throughout the canals, most of which were designed as initial contact points for citizens to find. Then it was just a matter of getting sent on the right path, as it were. The hardest part was finding the first station. Barney, fortunately, knew them all by heart. _Gonna want the main station. Close by._

Barney kept to the rooftops at first, knowing the streets would likely be patrolled. The Citadel remained lit up in the distance, although scanners no longer poured from it. He could hear the hoots of striders off closer to the city epicenter, while he could outright see a helicopter, headlight blazing, fly down a street only two blocks down.

And of course, the Overwatch dispatch remained a constant drone.

"Attention, please. All citizens be on notice: anomalous exogen breach detected in surrounding environs. Maintain total awareness. Cooperation with local protection teams permits full ration reward."

 _They're not gonna know what to look for._ Barney grinned. _They're in the dark, same as us. Hah! Can't say I don't like it._

Barney dropped down closer to the train tracks, near the main station. CP typically didn't patrol the tracks themselves – outside the city that was the purview of Overwatch, and inside the city there were plenty of barriers and very frequent trains – but that didn't mean he'd want to stay around the tracks for too long. Plenty of scanners in the city, and citizens were "encouraged" not to play on the tracks.

Off to the side of the tracks, a broken catwalk overlooked a mostly-drained canal down below. Barney sidled along to the catwalk, only to hear a train horn scream in the distance. He paused, waiting to use the cover of the passing train to drop down. _Just to be safe._ He removed his backpack and placed it over his head before letting his legs dangle over the edge. Something began to glow orange against the wall ahead. Barney raised an eyebrow.

The razor train came screaming by, but its familiar sleek hull blazed with flames. Smoking green holes rimmed the outside of several passenger cars, the insides leaking fire. Barney's eyes widened as the train continued its passage and the damage did not decrease; the entire train had been fucked. After it passed, it left an acrid smell in its wake, and a copious amount of fading smoke in the air. Barney could only stare after it, gaping. _Jesus. How'd that happen?_

But he'd waited too long. Keeping his backpack high above his head, he dropped into the water. He gasped at the chill but kept moving, hoping he'd have something to dry off with real quick. The backpack grew steadily heavier as he kicked his way across the shallow canal, to the opposite side where a derailed red boxcar blocked further entry.

Barney clambered up a ladder to the back of the boxcar and made sure to step hard on the roof. A gap in the roof ahead made him smile. He dropped in and hoped they had something to warm him up.

"The Barney Calhoun." A human and a vortigaunt stared at him from across the boxcar. The vortigaunt inclined his head. "The Alyx Vance sent word of your arrival. We anticipated it with great anticipation. Tell us; what prompts a retreat of such haste to City 17?"

"Good to see you, too," replied Barney, rolling his eyes. "Hey, Joe. Got a way for me to warm up?"

"Fire out back," replied the human, jerking a thumb towards the sliding door. He moved to open it, grunting as he shifted it aside. "Come on, dry off and tell us what's up. Need something to tell the other stations up ahead. You uh, you ain't running from something, are you?"

"Nah." Barney dropped out of the boxcar after Joe. The vortigaunt followed behind, making Barney's hair stand up, a little. The things still creeped him out just a bit. "Gotta bring something to Black Mesa. In the backpack. An alien body."

A small bonfire, obscured by the overhead overpass and the boxcar, roared merrily before them. Barney gladly scooted close to it, dropping the backpack and putting his hands forward.

"One of the interlopers?" asked the vortigaunt. The look Joe gave the alien made Barney suspect they had not discussed this. "Their intentions remain obfuscated. We would urge extreme caution in lieu of perhaps misplaced trust."

"How much you guys know?" Barney stared at the vortigaunt. But it said nothing further. "Dr. Vance said they touched down on the coast, assuming what I got is part of the same force. But all I got is a body. Well, that, and I know for sure these guys aren't Combine. They shot at a CP team." Barney grimaced. "Me included."

"That's why the Combine's all riled." Joe whistled. "Takes a special kind of stupid to try and hit them in an urban center." He glanced around at Barney's bulging backpack. "Can I … get a look?"

"Don't think so. Want to keep it as intact as possible as I get it to Black Mesa." Barney yawned and stretched. "Main station's right around the corner, yeah?"

"The Barney Calhoun is correct in his assumptions." The vortigaunt brought his hands together. "May his journey to Black Mesa East be swift, and the fruits of knowledge brought forth by his discoveries ripe."

"Right." Barney shook off the last few drops of tepid canal water. Then he stood, hoisting his backpack. "Got a bit of a trek ahead of me. Wish me luck. Stay out of trouble, yeah?"

"We shall remain."

"Good luck out there!"

Barney crouched his way through the debris and detritus under the overpass, feeling a pang as the warmth of the fire faded. The boxcar slid shut behind him, and he continued forward, nose wrinkling at the smell of urban decay.

The Railroad's main station lay just ahead. Someone, a sentry most likely, whistled at his approach. A sewer grate built into a nearby wall rustled with life. A balding man in a beige shirt waved him over.

"Barney Calhoun?" The rebel gave a low whistle. "Didn't think I'd see you down here. Usually it's Alyx making the runs. What brings you this way?"

"Package for Black Mesa East." Barney reached behind and touched his backpack. "Urgent. I need that airboat, pronto."

"Shit, really? All right. Head on 'round, we got a radio."

Barney walked around the corner of the wall to find an open grate. He proceeded through and the rebel motioned him forward, whistling a tune Barney found strangely familiar. Two more rebels, a man and a woman, clad in the regular blues of a citizen's getup, sat atop filthy mattresses, only standing as they exited the tunnel.

"Calhoun? Is everything all right?"

"Making a delivery run to Black Mesa East," replied Barney, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone. _You'd think I was the harbinger of doom, or something._ "Alyx isn't available, so it's up to me. Can you radio ahead and let 'em know I'll need the airboat?"

"Can do." The woman, hair done up in a bun, left the mattress and walked over to a crackling radio on a table. The man, an older gentleman with slightly bulging eyes and a pistol stowed in his pocket, looked Barney up and down.

"Nice to see you out of the CP getup." He grinned and extended his hand. Barney shook it. "Hammond, stayed at the lab for a little bit before getting posted here. You know what's got the cops all riled?"

"Aliens," replied Barney. "From outer space."

Hammond sputtered a little and gave Barney an odd look. Barney only shrugged.

"If I had a better explanation, I'd give one."

"That would explain the whole "anomalous exogen breach" shit," supplied the guy from the tunnel. "What else would they call an alien attack?"

The radio crackled into life. Barney let the backpack fall gently to the floor, shoulders aching a little. The two men stared at the bulging pack with sudden suspicion.

"You, uh, you carrying a body in there."

"Afraid so. It's one of the little green men." Barney smiled at their obvious confusion. "Gotta get it to Black Mesa East for dissection."

The radio static snapped off suddenly. The lady turned around, frowning.

"They wish they'd had a little more warning, but they'll gas it up for you. You're the fourth person through today, so you might have to take a passenger or two."

"Fourth?" Barney frowned. "That's a little more than usual, isn't it?"

"The three of them came in a group together. Said they'd slipped out as a street got cracked down on by CP." The woman shrugged. "It happens, from time to time. They weren't followed. We sent them on their way. Speaking of…" She gestured to Hammond, who shrugged.

"All right, I'll take him over. Anything we need from Station 6?"

"Toilet paper," said the balding man immediately. Hammond paused and then nodded.

"Got it. I'll grab some more water bottles too, while I'm at it." He glanced to the woman. "Anything else, Lisa?"

"If they have any guns or ammo to spare, we can clear out some more barnacles. And I'd feel a lot safer." Hammond gave a thumbs up.

"All right. Let's go!"

The two of them pressed towards the far wall and up a ladder through an open manhole. They hugged a wall that led further down towards another overpass's underside, the stench of decay growing stronger yet again.

"Mind the barnacles." Hammond pointed to the underside of the overpass. Sure enough, several glistening tongues dangled from the ceiling. "And try not to slip."

As they dropped from the wall and under the overpass, something unspeakable squelched underfoot. Barney took each step carefully and deliberately. _Like a penguin. Remember those?_ His heels still skidded a bit as he took every third step or so.

"Railroad been quiet? Apart from today, I mean."

"Not much CP activity, if that's what you mean." Hammond edged his way around a barnacle tongue. "Get a person through, every now and again. Usually it's someone just trying to make a break for it and made an educated guess about the canals. Eh … not all of them make the best guesses. We have to fish bodies out of the water every now and again."

"Yeah," said Barney, remembering some of the times he'd seen someone do a runner. Half the time CP wouldn't even shoot them at first; some of them found it entertaining to see where, exactly, they thought they could run to. _Plus, it's a good way to flush out nests if they do know. Glad I was never on a team that had that thought._ "Man. I try not to think about all the people I … you know."

"Could have saved?" The two of them emerged into the cool night. Another tunnel, stinking of stagnant water, beckoned them further into the canals. Broken concrete crunched underfoot. "I … I know what you mean."

Barney drew in a breath, thinking. _Lauren, for one. Still thinking of you, baby. Mom and dad. Wish I'd been there with you when the portals opened. Danny. Wish you hadn't signed on, at least not when you did. Too many people at Black Mesa. And then since…_

Funny, the way the shit just piled on. One less – an unspeakable tragedy. But losing everything, all at once? Surviving that just numbed everything else. Nevertheless, Barney still reached back to his pack and felt for the bottle of beer. He almost smiled when he felt the outline, hard underneath the nylon.

They didn't speak much throughout most of the journey. Frankly, much of it was spent trying not to breathe too much – the water in the canals might have receded, but the stench had not. The Overwatch Dispatch kept droning on in the background, but it was just the same looped messages about exogen breaches. The Railroad remained free from the Combine's reach for the moment, it seemed. All the while, the pack grew heavier and heavier.

The smell grew noticeably sharper and more oppressive as they crested one final storm drain and came upon a pool of sludge. Up ahead, a gun in one hand, a noticeably more ragged citizen waved them down.

"Hammond! Good to see you." The armed citizen stood by a crackling radio. Up ahead, a veritable sea of debris formed a rough tunnel into the main station beyond. _If I remember right, they've built almost everything here out of random scrap. Can't say I envy the people living here. At least Black Mesa East has proper beds._ "And Barney, excellent. Airboat is gassed up and ready to go at the docks. Some other citizens were kind enough to wait for you to arrive. Be sure to thank them."

"Yeah, three of 'em, right?" Barney hoisted the backpack. "Eh … any reason you're armed?"

The radio operator started. "Oh – sorry. Arlene said she saw some things, out in the water. Wasn't sure what. Thought it might be bullsquids. Thought it would be a good idea to arm up." He glanced at Hammond, then at his pistol. "Eh, hope you brought a gun, Calhoun. We don't have any to spare, and the trip might not be that safe."

"Yeah, I got mine." Barney dropped his backpack to the floor and unzipped it. "Wouldn't mind more ammo."

The radio operator gestured to a nearby crate. Barney opened it and grinned at the magazines stacked neatly on top of one another. He helped himself to three.

"No guns to spare?" asked Hammond and Barney pocketed the goods. "What about water bottles? Toilet paper?"

"We'll see what we can do." The radio operator gestured to the scrap tunnel up ahead with his gun. "Anyway, you better get going. Those gents have been waiting for a while now. Been pretty good sports about it, actually. Most folks just seem desperate to get clear of the city when they get here…"

Barney thanked the radio operator and got on his belly, gun still in hand. He crawled through the tunnel carefully, taking care to keep his head down, and trying not to dwell on just how long it had been since his last tetanus shot. _Wouldn't that be a stupid way to die?_

Station 6 proper reminded Barney of pictures he'd seen of the poor parts of Johannesburg, back in the day. Dirty sheets of metal propped up to form rough roofs, wooden planks placed strategically over piles of radioactive muck to permit access, mattresses and sofas packed into abandoned cargo containers to create a semblance of a living space…

"Don't know how you Railroad folks do it," said Barney as he stepped gingerly on top of a plank of wood acting as a bridge over a pool of something distinctly unpleasant. "I can handle living in a tenement, I can handle living in a lab. But hanging out in a sewer?"

"There's no better fight," replied Hammond, sweat shining on his forehead in the bright moonlight. "No better way to thumb your nose at the Combine. Every life we save … you know it's worth it."

A few citizens huddled in cargo crates with guns in their laps watched them go by with sullen eyes. Barney got the impression they were on watch. They at least waved back when prompted.

Circling around the last puddle of waste, a small pier rose up out of the muck. Barney trod on solid wood with no small amount of gratitude. Up ahead, a small gate in the radioactive water, currently down. Beyond it, a mudskipper, dirty but intact. On the pier, a woman finished dumping the remainder of a gas canister into the airboat while three strangely still men looked onward.

"This should last you," grunted the lady as they approached. She looked up. "Yep! This is the guy. Thank you for your patience."

One of the three citizens inclined his head. He turned to face Barney. He was very tall and gaunt, his vision intense. Something prickled at the back of Barney's mind. It almost felt familiar, somehow. Like that tune. _I had to tell Eli something._

The citizen's eyes lingered on Barney's gun for a few moments. Then the man smirked. "So. You are Barney Calhoun, then? The one we have been waiting for?"

"Yep." Barney glanced at the airboat. "Gotta get to Black Mesa East, and it looks like a one seater. I figure it could handle on of you on either side, holding on to the frame?" Barney looked from one citizen to the next. Was it just him, or were none of them … blinking?

"We go as three," said one.

"Or not at all," finished another. "But, we are willing to wait. We are told you have a package for Black Mesa?"

Barney glanced at the lady, who shrugged. Something was … starting to feel wrong, here. A trio of black dufflebags huddled under a desk behind her. One of the gents had discreetly begun shuffling up to it.

"Yeah," said Barney, resisting the urge to back up. His palms sweated against the handle of his submachine gun. _Really glad I had this out, all of a sudden._ "Uh, it's sorta urgent, so if I'm free to go…"

"We are curious as to the contents of your pack," remarked the foremost citizen in a pleasant tone. He stood over Barney, at least a head taller, eyes looking almost yellow in the dark. "What could be so urgent to prevent the passage of three citizens in favor of one?"

"Something to use against the Combine?" suggested the second citizen. The third had reached the desk. He began to reach down.

Barney looked the citizen straight in the eye.

"You're talking to an undercover metrocop. You guys aren't subtle. What do you want?"

"The body," breathed the closest citizen, his voice a rasping hiss.

"Yes."

"Give us the body, so we may leave this place."

"Barney?" asked Hammond, voice shaking. "What's going on?"

"Aliens walk among us, Hammond," said Barney, standing straight, looking the bastard right in the eye. The citizen turned his head, like a bird surveying its prey. "I think they're trying to reclaim their own." Barney came to a conclusion, and took a deep breath. "Lemme give you a Black Mesa welcome."

Hammond shouted as Barney let loose with the gun. Green sprayed from the citizen's uniform, dispelling any lingering doubt from his mind. He fell backwards, yelling, while Hammond pulled his pistol free and fired wildly.

The gas lady screamed, falling backward, while the third citizen had pulled something free from his duffle bag. It glowed an eerie and familiar green.

"Down!"

Bolts of light shot over Barney's head, the air sizzling with a burst of concentrated heat. Barney kept firing. A cloud of thick green smoke appeared from nowhere as his gun went click. And something flopped into the noxious liquid below. Barney ejected the empty mag and felt for the other one, on his stomach all the while. Then he began to inch forward on his belly, trying to get closer to the boat. He couldn't see anything through the … smoke.

Something hissed like a snake on his right. Barney jerked his aim in that direction and looked down the holographic sight. Hammond shouted from behind him, and he heard more footsteps on wood. The rest of Station 6 coming to see what was going on.

"What the-"

More green flew from behind the smoke. Barney snapped back to it and emptied several more rounds in its general direction. He heard another hiss of alien pain and chuckled, crawling forward again.

"We've got hostiles!"

Something leapt from the pier and into the water. The "citizen" stood only waist deep in the muck, entirely unperturbed by the radioactive toxins. He held a single, lengthy green rifle in a single hand. He aimed it behind Barney and fired three times.

The green bolts collided with Hammond, sending searing blood everywhere. He flew backwards with some force, crunching against the wall before sliding off the pier and into the water. The "citizen" hissed in triumph. Barney aimed at his face.

The "citizen" moved as if boneless, his legs and arms moving unnaturally as he tried to dive into the water. The bullets found him anyway, kicking up bright green blood. With a final scream, the creature exploded into noxious green smoke. To Barney's bafflement, his rifle promptly burst into pieces as he went limp.

The dust settled. Two gun-wielding citizens came up to Barney from behind, asking him if he was okay. Gas lady lay dead amongst two dead "citizens," her neck broken. Hammond floated face down in the clouded filth. E.T. grew a little heavier on Barney's back.

"Fine," said Barney, shifting his aching shoulders. "Spread the word. We've got aliens posing as citizens." He pointed to the distended bodies. "Save those if you can. God knows, I'll probably have to come back for them." _Try not to dwell on those you can't save._ If he had the time, he'd fish Hammond out himself.

"We'll-"

"Attention, please," said the Overwatch Dispatch, her voice terrifyingly close. Barney's heart jolted in his chest, and the previously flushed faces of the citizens grew pale. "Unidentified weapons discharge detected in Sector 6. Possible exogen breach in progress. Remote compliance measures confirmed. Unidentified persons of interest: accept your verdict. Containment zone designated. Ground teams move to intercept. Code: Inquire. Isolate. Clamp."

"You gotta go," said one wild-eyed citizen, shoving Barney towards the boat. "We gotta pull everything up and move. Move!"

"I can take a couple of you with-" Barney's words fell on deaf ears. The man already turned the crank that opened the gate. He pointed to the airboat.

"No time! We'll be all right. Just-"

Something burst in the distance. The ground trembled. The other citizen hurried back, gun at the ready, shouting for everyone to get clear. _Good God._

"Go on!" screamed the citizen, and Barney clambered aboard, placing the backpack next to his feet near the gas pedals. "Drive, dammit! Don't stop until you see the dam!"

Barney turned the key and the airboat roared into life. With a shout he drove onward through the tunnel, leaving Station 6 behind. With a final glance backwards, he saw the second headcrab canister slam into the Station, making his teeth shake from the impact. Small arms fire erupted from where it landed. _Control it. Come on. Get everyone out._

The sound of a helicopter dispelled that notion. _They might have seen some of those stray green energy blasts. They're coming to collect. But why the canisters, then…?_ _Unless … unless they already knew where the Station was._

Another canister hit the ground. A woman began screaming. Barney left the engine idling, wondering if he should head back. _Don't dwell on those you cannot save-_

The hunter chopper came from the east, its searchlight blazing. The citizen had been right. No time. Barney hit the gas and hoped the damn thing wouldn't see him. He heard the hum of its gun charging as it circled the shantytown. Then the discharge, which terminated with a fourth shell hitting the station.

The dark canals stretched ahead. Barney gunned down them, left hand keeping the backpack still while his other pinned the throttle, his heart in his throat. As the canals opened up into widened cisterns and small lakes, he kept his eyes in the sky, not just for the Combine, but for the same thing he had looked for back in New Mexico, all those years ago.

"And they called me a nut for believing in UFOs," muttered Barney, half-giggling to himself from the sheer terror of it all. The gunshot faded from behind him, leaving Barney alone with his thoughts and the alien body. _Long way to go._


	6. The Bridge

The interior of the saucer, how would Odessa describe it? It was everything he envisioned when he first thought of the phrase "UFO." Blinking consoles. A central pillar filled with green energy that appeared to be a reactor. Peculiar inscriptions on the walls that he could not help but notice held a resemblance to his new four-armed friend. The walls themselves looked quite angular, their smooth contours in stark contrast to what he had seen of Combine architecture in both color and shape: green and purple instead of blue and black, soft and curved instead of stark and straight.

In a sense, everything Odessa saw felt oddly reassuring. These beings, whatever they were and wherever they came from, were not a part of the Combine. They also did not hail from Xen. However, as he concluded his inspection of the alien vessel, flanked by Sparky and Annette Durand, he nevertheless still felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His moustache even prickled. They rounded the corner and came to, well, the throne room, where their new guest sat flanked by two hulking guards in red armor, massive green particle weapons carried in their gauntleted hands.

Odessa tried to ignore the puffs of green gas exuded by the covered mouths of the guards, as well as their sheer enormity. He instead strode before and tried to focus on the still-not-entirely-reassuring slender masked figure sitting upon the throne.

"We have concluded our tour and find without a doubt," said Odessa, glancing at his red-eyed vortigaunt companion, "that you are not of the Combine. For that reason alone, I think, we should open diplomatic channels."

"We of the Ethereal ones welcome this opportunity." The being spoke in a harsh whisper that carried without difficulty but did not echo. Odessa gulped, Adam's Apple bobbing. He suspected that the creature did not spoke, per se. But it was heard. "This planet holds much potential, but labors under the yoke of these Harvesters. Our battlefleet remains in orbit and throughout the solar system. We wish to complete our reconnaissance before committing fully to battle."

Odessa's eyebrows shot up beneath his beanie. "You … you wish to give battle to the Combine?"

The Ethereal One gave an airy wave of his hand, the splayed fingers resembling nothing so much as a waiting spider. "Their garrisons sleep. Even as the cores of their cities awaken, their forces flee the countryside. It will be a small thing to take empty ground. We only require cooperation from your Resistance." The Ethereal One's head turned to the vortigaunt. "You … you are marked by something greater. We can sense it. What are you, that which is neither human nor Combine?"

"Something secret steers us, we who wield the Vortessence," growled Sparky, livid central eye glaring at the masked figure before him. "We are Vortikind, and we pledged ourselves to the Eli Vance, and the Liberation."

"You bear the Gift," murmured the Ethereal One softly, making Odessa frown. "We ask you then, Vortikind, what of humanity? Do they, too, bear the Gift?" The masked head turned to Annette Durand. The woman glanced at Odessa, who half-lifted his palm. _Steady. I'm sure he means nothing by it._ The vortigaunt took a step forward. Odessa could not help but suspect this was out of trying to divert the Ethereal One's attention.

"Their Vortal inputs are impaired," said Sparky. "Some hear echoes of the All In One, and a rare few may even glimpse the threads that weave together and bind us, but none can wield the Vortessence as Vortikind. In time, perhaps, this can be changed."

"I see." The Ethereal One turned its head back to Odessa. "Never before have the Ethereal Ones encountered so many sapients gathered together on a single planet. All will be tested. All will be brought together."

Odessa cleared his throat. "I do hope you do not mean to, ah, assimilate us as the Combine did," he said, painfully aware of how all three aliens towered over him. "Because, assuming that is the case, we must oppose you as bitterly as we do them." He raised a clenched fist, trying to look convincing. The guard on the right snorted. It sounded like a rhinoceros poised to charge.

"The Ethereal Ones will seek the Gift, as we always have," replied the Ethereal, voice raspy but not unpleasant. "We will test. We will judge. We intend to liberate, not establish dominion. The lesser threat must be dealt with, before the greater can be faced."

"Greater threat?" Odessa waited for the Ethereal to respond, but he did not. He merely rose, floating into the air, surveying the three supplicants brought before him.

"The Combine," said the Ethereal, extending a hand. "We have probed and found them lacking, but their leadership is not apparent. From where do they come? How strong are their present forces?"

"The Combine come from another universe," said Odessa, wiping his brow. "They, ah, arrived in enormous numbers twenty years ago through a massive portal. Earth's defense forces, such as they were, lasted only seven hours."

Odessa's words hung in the air. The right guard snorted again. The Ethereal tilted his head at Odessa, considering him somehow.

"Seven hours?" it asked, the "s" in the seven elongated. "They subjugated this entire planet within less than half of a single rotation?"

"Well, yes," replied Odessa, feeling a little embarrassed about it all. "The vast majority of their forces retreated back into the portal after our surrender. Most of them I've never personally seen again." He shuddered, remembering the writhing of twisted metal and flesh, the skeletal creatures with multifaceted eyes and weapons built into themselves. There were too many shapes to consider, to remember. All he could recall fully was running, running as fast as he could from the monstrosities behind him, only to be faced with twice as many in front of him. "I … assure you. What resistance we did offer was to the best of our ability. But there was no fighting something on that scale."

"Vortikind has long fled the long arm of the Combine," said Sparky, making Odessa turn. He could not recall any vortigaunt discussing their history in any detail previously. "Our world is long lost to us, smothered beneath their influence. This is not the first miserable rock we have fled to. Before this, Xen. Before that, Parshaara. And before that…" The vortigaunt closed its eyes and pressed its palms together. "…long has been our exodus. We would urge the Ethereal Ones to weigh carefully their plans of liberation. Sufficient aggravation to our oppressors will only warrant devastating retribution." The vortigaunt sniffed. "Unless the Ethereal Ones feel of sufficient might to stand against several universes worth of hostile entities. Be that the case, we who wield the Vortessence would gladly stand aside your improbable power."

"They hold several universes." The Ethereal's tone remained flat. Then it inclined its head to Sparky. "We well understand the plight of your people. Our home remains far behind us, and our journey stretches ahead. We of the Ethereal Ones still seek the New One, who might succeed where we have failed. We come to this planet and see potential, buried beneath the cold metal. We will extract this potential … carefully. How might we prevent the Harvesters from reinforcing themselves?"

"The Citadel Network," blurted Annette, making them all glance at her. The massive guard snorted again. "Have you seen them? Those huge towers in the centers of our cities?"

"The Ethereal Ones witnessed them from orbit," replied the alien coolly. "Their presence is difficult to ignore."

"Right," said Annette, reddening. "Those have dark energy reactors. They can still open portals – they opened two over the oceans. Maybe you've seen those as well. If you can take them down somehow, they wouldn't be able to call for reinforcements."

"Not to put a damper on those aspirations of yours, Durand," said Odessa, stepping forward, "but at last count, there were fifty-seven citadels on this planet, each of them in possession of their own dark energy reactor. While of varying size, all of them are enormous, and crawling with enemy forces … and it would take but a single one of them to bring ruination on us all."

"The Odessa Cubbage speaks wisdom through his cowardice," said the vortigaunt, making Odessa's own cheeks redden. "Direct confrontation remains impossible. Defeating our enemy means steadily choking him through denial of resources and sudden strikes, perhaps coupled with some scientific breakthroughs courtesy of the Eli Vance and his companions."

"The Ethereal Ones will proceed cautiously." The Ethereal extended a palm to Odessa. Colonel Cubbage … the Harvesters retreat from these wastelands in droves. Where might we strike to best harm them while they are weak?"

"Well, Nova Prospekt lies further north," said Odessa, rubbing his chin, "but, ah, that is a major troop production facility and research center. Attacking there will, for lack of a better term, royally piss off the Combine. Closer, however, there is the bridge."

"The bridge," breathed Sparky.

"The bridge," said Odessa again, nodding. "Yes. We used to hold it, but radio silence in that area suggests it has fallen under Combine control. A pity, as a railroad runs over it, ferrying troops to and from City 17 and Nova Prospekt. We used to be able to keep close track of troop movements. If you wanted to begin establishing a stranglehold over the coast, I would start there … but we warned. You will invite some level of reprisal."

"The bridge," intoned the Ethereal, raising its arms. To Odessa's mild shock, two more arms emerged from under its robes, raised in the air and splaying similarly long fingers. "Yes. We will take the bridge for ourselves. We can see it in your mind's eye – a critical location."

"Taking it would help us link up with the vortigaunt camp and Lighthouse Point," added Annette. "Are you really going to do this?"

"We would ask you three accompany us to this bridge. To make certain all truths have been told." The Ethereal gestured to the guard on his left. The guard pounded his chest once with a meaty thud before marching off, bellowing something in some alien tongue. "You will assist us in combat. All will shoulder the burden."

Odessa reddened. "I – that is to say – I am not a field operator! My role is in the rear, with the radio! I am too valuable-"

"He's going," said Annette bluntly, grabbing Odessa by the arm. "Best head back below and grab a real gun, _sir._ "

"This revolver is perfectly serviceable-" But Annette had already begun tugging him onward, around the corner and towards the ramp, Odessa protesting all the while. A small crowd of, well, practically everyone at NLO waited on the second story of the building.

"We're taking back the bridge!" called out Annette as they stepped from the metal of the craft on to the wood of the house. "Me, him, and Sparky are going to help out. Be back before long. Decker, hand me that rifle."

Decker handed over a pulse rifle to Annette, who then whistled and gestured to Watts. Watts grinned and proffered her own submachine gun to Odessa, who took it with trembling hands. She forked over two magazines, which he entrusted to his coat pockets.

"Can we trust these guys?" asked Krakowsky, his prominent brow furrowing at the two of them. All turned to look up – not at Odessa, to his disappointment – but to the top of the ramp, where Sparky stood.

"We may benefit from this arrangement," said the vortigaunt. "We will ascertain the nature of these interlopers. They are no strangers to the Vortessence, twisted though they may feel. Bringing bloody battle to the beleaguered bridge will better our understanding of their intentions."

"Yes," said Odessa, moustache quivering. "Quite. Ladies and gentlemen, keep this place safe while I am gone. We will return once the bridge is under our control once again."

"Good luck out there!" called out Decker as they retreated back up the ramp, which slid up behind them. The craft's doors began to close. Once shut, Odessa could not even make out the indentations where they folded open. He turned to his companions, weapon in hand, licking his lips.

"Well," he began, "when I got up this morning, I did not think this would be part of today's activities."

"Save it. About time our luck turned around." Annette found an outcropping of smooth metal and sat atop it, rifle across her lap. She looked up at Sparky. "Thoughts?"

"We find this ship's aroma … displeasing." The vortigaunt's face wrinkled. "The Vortessence feels dampened, here. Logic and loyalty demands an open mind for these interlopers. But something inside screams about questionable ethics."

Around the corner, more hulking shapes shambled to the front. At their head, the two brutes clad in red armor. Behind them, clad in green, their upper faces exposed above their rebreathers, stood three similarly massive soldiers. In their arms were smaller, but still enormous, green weapons. The air filled with the sound of their grunting breaths.

"We begin our journey," said the Ethereal, floating around the opposite corner. "You will cooperate with mine own soldiers. Strike down the garrison. Bring their bodies to me."

"Their bodies?" asked Odessa, gaping. The Ethereal inclined its head.

"We have our own research to complete. Retrieval from the cities remains problematic. We yearn to better understand these Harvesters and their designs."

"I … see." Odessa licked his lips. It made sense, but still … it felt creepy, somehow. _Well, perhaps we may learn something new about the Overwatch from their research? They should have some fresh insights … better facilities…_ "So, how long will it take?"

The Ethereal paused. "The journey is complete. Proceed down the ramp."

"What?" Annette stood up, incredulous. "I didn't even feel this thing move!"

"Such technology is not unknown to Vortikind." The vortigaunt bared his teeth. "Truly, the Ethereal Ones bring a bounty of technology to this place. We are honored to fight at their side."

Odessa could not be sure, but he thought he had witnessed the first known instance of vortigaunt sarcasm.

The mammoth soldiers stepped forward, and the three of them were only too eager to get out of their way. One of them let out a deep yelp and slapped the side of his green rifle, which let out a high-pitched whine. Odessa tentatively took his place behind his companions. Annette at least looked ready to go. _She always did complain about being stuck behind with the radios._ Personally, Odessa always welcomed it. He felt the sweat slick his grip around his gun.

The entrance opened with a small hiss of pressure, the ramp sliding to the gravel below. The soldiers bellowed and rushed forward, sparks from gunfire already lighting up the ramp around them. Odessa saw one get hit in a burst of green blood, but it only boomed out what had to be laughter. They took cover to either side of the craft behind a low wall, calling out in some alien tongue. Odessa started as Annette took his hand and dragged him forward.

"Move!"

Odessa ducked and ran, sliding down the ramp and across the gravel, practically falling under the wall. One of the green soldiers looked down at him and uttered what had to have been a chuckle. It dropped its rifle and reached for its belt, bellowing something guttural. Something beeped and glowed green in its palm. Odessa had a guess as to what it meant. He plugged his ears, gun resting on his lap.

The grenade flew in an impressive arc over the low wall.

"Bouncer, bouncer!"

A flash of emerald lit up the area, and the alien soldiers emerged from behind the wall, weapons firing projectiles of an equally lurid green. Odessa followed suit, uttering his best war cry and firing his weapon in the vague direction of the enemy. Two Overwatch ducked into a beach house, their radios crackling all the while. One of the aliens took aim and fired at their cover. It disappeared in a haze of viridian smoke.

"Overwatch, sector is not controlled. Confirmed exogen breach. Request reserve activation and deploy."

"Overwatch, air pathogen confirmed. Recommend reactivation of emergency containment procedures. Requesting Airwatch activation."

Odessa could barely hear their words over the roaring of blood in his head, the roar of the aliens around him, and the roaring of the gun in his hand. It went click and he didn't even notice, instead staring slack-jawed at his charging allies.

One Overwatch ducked in a barn shed, only for a red-clad alien to burst through it. The soldier gamely tried to shove the alien back with the butt of his gun, only for it to be parried with an up thrust rifle. Then the alien reached out and grabbed the soldier by the head.

"Overwatch, sector is not-" The alien hurled the soldier full force, sending it through the remaining intact wall of the barn. The building collapsed around the soldier, who shouldered through the wooden wreckage with a victorious cry.

"Keep up!" shouted Annette, her own weapon braced against the wall. She let out two sharp bursts. "Colonel! Move up!"

Odessa shook his head and ducked back behind the wall. He felt for the magazine and slotted it in to his smoking gun before vaulting over the wall, back twinging. The alien soldiers now dominated the courtyard, which was really all that was left of the settlement. The main building smoked with three open green wounds, and a fire raged within. The beach house lay half-collapsed. The barn lay fully collapsed. And the Overwatch fell back.

"More fire from the bridge," grunted Sparky, extending a finger to the horizon. The bridge, half-blanketed by mist, some of its architecture, hrm, freshly "augmented" by the Combine. Bringing his hand over his eyes, Odessa could just spot a new metal tower at the far end, near the underside of the train tunnel. As he watched, a flare shot into the sky.

"Damn," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

The aliens took up positions at the cliff's edge, rifles at the ready. Bullets pocked the lip of the cliff, their source indicated by the flares of weapon discharges across the bridge's scaffolding. One look at the hulking forms of their new friends made clear that they were not going to make that journey anytime soon.

One alien fired a green blast, which flew wide, only to be smacked by his red superior. The hulking red monster growled something and pointed to where the stray energy bolt had struck the bridge. The metal twisted and burnt underneath the impact. Odessa got the idea. _They don't want the bridge to collapse. Considerate of them._

The alien turned back to the waiting UFO and pounded his chest, calling. Something answered from the inside, gargling a response. Something shot into the air from the ramp of the craft.

Three aliens, each nothing more than a torso strapped to a … jetpack? They roared and hurtled through the air, more weapons clad in their metal arms, rushing for the far side of the bridge. In the distance, more green light leapt from where they flew.

"They will secure the far side," rasped a voice from behind them. The Ethereal One floated from the craft, main arms lifted into the air. "This bridge is ours."

"Sir," said Odessa, not sure what else to call it, "they have called for air support. Perhaps we should, eh, retreat into the craft?"

"The Combine gunship is a worthy adversary," agreed Sparky, eyes still fixed on the destruction beyond. "It would be best to meet it in the air, where it least expects."

"The Combine gunship is mine," replied the Ethereal without emotion. It extended a bony finger and pointed to the middle distance. "There. It hungers for death."

Indeed, Odessa heard the tell-tale sound of the turbine approaching. He coughed, looked around, saw no building he could really hide in, and carefully shifted himself behind one of the red aliens. It cast a look around at him and grunted. Odessa suspected the beast was not terribly impressed.

The Ethereal One lifted its arms high. The gunship roared, its cry both mechanical and bestial. It crested over the far train tunnel, head swiveling this way and that. Odessa saw it sweep its gun over the floating aliens below before seeing the far cliff. It continued to surge forward, and Odessa lost his nerve.

"Down!" he shouted, but only Annette heeded his words. Sparky stood firm alongside the Ethereal, and the alien soldiers instead opened fire. Their projectiles flew wide, hitting everywhere around the gunship, but not striking true. The gunship returned fire, and one of the green aliens flew backward, grunting, blood spraying. With a cry he collapsed to the ground, gun vanishing in a burst of electricity. The Ethereal did not budge.

The gunship crossed overhead, roaring again. It wheeled about, twisting turbine and flippers to alter its course. The Ethereal turned to face it, floating forward ahead of its comrades. The alien soldiers continued to fire, the green flying in every direction, but the gunship merely kept flying gently to the side, the energy hitting nothing. Its compound eyes locked squarely with where the Ethereal floated. It charged, gun blazing.

The Ethereal's second set of arms emerged from under the robes, and it _pushed_ out, a thin globe of translucent material forming around it. The pulse rounds hovered in the air before the Ethereal and held. The gunship, now directly overhead, cried out. The Ethereal held, arms shaking slightly, looking up at the now still gunship. The underside of the creature began to smoke.

"Yes," said the Ethereal, perhaps answering the gunship's dismayed bellow. The Ethereal's hands slowly pushed to the side. The gunship smoked and twitched, stress lines appearing at the edge of the turbine and close to the head. It fired wildly at the Ethereal, but the bullets stopped feet before his body and just hovered there, like a swarm of fireflies. "Yes."

With a groan, the gunship shook and came apart into three pieces, the head flying out towards the sea, the chassis and turbine falling … oh dear.

Odessa shouted and rolled, chunks of gunship falling all around him. The air filled with heat and he closed his eyes, praying this was not how it ended. After a few moments of silence, the air stilled, and Odessa _breathed._ He stood, shaking, coughing, looking around for his erstwhile allies. The alien soldiers flanked the Ethereal, who stood over a twitching chunk of rubble. With a shake of the wrist, it flew aside, revealing Sparky, leg bent all wrong. The Ethereal turned to his right and repeated the gesture. Annette groaned, her side bloody.

The Ethereal looked to Odessa, lower set of arms retreating beneath its robes.

"You fight like a Sectoid," said the Ethereal, and Odessa could tell that was not a compliment. The Ethereal floated over, hand extended. Odessa scrunched up his face but held his ground, waiting. The Ethereal reached for his cheek and lifted it upward to stare straight at the mask. "Yet, we may have use for you. Your companions are wounded. A mistake on my part. Please permit me to rectify that error, and treat them."

Odessa's eyes darted behind the Ethereal. Sparky groaned, eye half-shut. One of the big aliens slapped the side of his gun, which charged with a high-pitched whine. In the distance, an Overwatch soldier let out a death cry. The Ethereal looked down at him, inscrutable.

"Of course," replied Odessa, voice cracking. "Regrettable accident. Sorry about your man. But … good job with that gunship!"

The Ethereal did not reply. It relinquished its grip and floated back towards its vessel, lifting a single clenched hand as it reached the ramp.

"Bring me the bodies. All of them."

The alien soldiers moved to comply, scooping up the fallen Overwatch soldiers and chunks of gunship alike. One grunted and pointed to Odessa, then to the steaming rubble.

"So it's like that, is it?" mumbled Odessa, but he nevertheless hastened to comply. By the time he had gathered the first armful of gunship and walked up to the ramp, he realized with a pang that he could not see where Sparky or Durand went. He could see the patches of blood where they lay, but no sign of them.

"Excuse me," he said to the nearest alien soldier, but it only growled and pointed to another pile of gunship parts. Then it shambled off, ground rumbling slightly with each footstep. Odessa stared over the bridge. The mists began to clear.

"Yes," he said to himself, heart sinking. "That's exactly how it is."

Two hours later, a train exited the far tunnel. By the time it crossed the two hundred feet of bridge and reached the other side, it blazed with flame. Odessa watched the fires alone, weapon cast aside at his feet.


	7. Lab Specimen

_Video feed remains 100% functional. No other group members currently attached. Audio receptors functional and currently engaged._ Scythe 2's pulse rifle fit snugly against his shoulder and in his arms. No current directives. The one they escorted, C17/314 local administrator, remained fixed in the room, arguing with an undesignated civilian. The white lab coat the civilian wore sent a flicker of recognition in Scythe 2's head, but the flicker died upon reaching the twisted metal inside. They were not programmed to remember. The Elite remained stock still.

"Perhaps I am not making myself clear," said the Administrator, hands briefly running down the lines of his forehead and down his cheeks. He looked up slowly at the civilian, a dark-skinned man with glasses, taller than the Administrator but less broad about the shoulders. "The situation is precarious, and what you are suggesting is unethical on both a macro and micro level."

"Since when have you been concerned about questionable ethics?" asked the civilian, his voice deep. He gestured to Scythe 2, who still only stared straight ahead. "These soldiers have already endured the maximum possible extent of human modification … at least, the maximum extent possible given the tools available on this planet. And even within that relatively small boundary, they have lost-"

"I know what they have lost!" snapped the Administrator, stabbing the air with a pointed index finger. "Do you think I look down on the city and pretend that all is well? Do you think I leave any sacrifice made by humanity untallied? I know exactly what has been taken from these soldiers and, perhaps more pertinently, what has been given to them!"

The Administrator stepped forward, nostrils flaring. "And you … you would make them _remember_ what they were? What it took to bring them to this … evolutionary apex? What next? Would you augment our stalkers in a similar fashion?"

"The brain remains the only organ still worth tinkering with," replied the civilian, back straight, but not looking the Administrator in the eye directly. "Muscle augmentation is presently impossible. I cannot squeeze any further organ, muscle, or bone replacement into our Elites, no matter how desperately they might need it. They are thirty-five percent flesh and blood as it is. But I think I can still improve their cognitive and creative functions for an increase in combat effectiveness."

"And then we run into the macro ethical breach." The Administrator breathed in heavily, eyes closing. He turned around and began to pace before the doctor, head bowed, speaking more to himself than the other man. "If our benefactors got word that we were programming what could be construed as a … greater degree of free will, into their soldiers, they might easily misinterpret that as the beginnings of a rebellion staged by their administrator. And they have their doubts as it is."

"It's the best I can offer, Wallace," replied the doctor, arms folded behind his back, glasses glinting in the dull light of the Citadel. "I can reduce the level of proposed neurological enhancement and perhaps create a new template for our Elites. Very small chance of damage or conflicting programming … but also only a small increase in combat effectiveness." His lips pursed. "With a larger science team, I might be able to move faster. With a dedicated wetware engineer, I would most certainly be able to move faster."

"Chen still refuses to cooperate, even in the face of death." The Administrator stopped, sighing. "I had hoped it would not come to this, particularly given that we are abandoning the outlying sectors. Perhaps he will not realize it is an empty threat." The Administrator cleared his throat, turning back to the doctor. "I will get you your people. How soon before you can finish … this?"

"Give me three hours." The civilian's posture slackened, and he looked to Scythe 2. The Elite did not return his stare. "Four augmentees?"

"As a test run." The Administrator ran a hand through his thinning white hair. "The last known invasion site was of low strategic importance. If any of them come back, I will consider it a victory. Any intel we can gain on these things will be critical. I intend to observe their mission personally." He licked his lips. "How long until the autopsy is concluded?"

"Two days. The price of working with a totally unfamiliar physiology." The doctor regarded the Administrator coolly. "I am afraid no number of wetware engineers will change that."

"Of course." The Administrator nodded to himself, turning away from the doctor. "Of course…"

The Administrator strode on polished shoes to the waiting elevator. The Elites all turned their heads to face him as he moved, although none of them shifted. _Following?_

"Remain," barked the Administrator. "You are to undergo a brief tune up to your wetware. Then you will be taking a dropship to the target site." Once on the glass elevator platform, he turned on his heel and stared at all of them. For a moment, his gaze met Scythe 2's. He felt another stab of recognition, swiftly dulled. "Good luck."

The doors slid shut, and the Administrator ascended out of sight. _Mission update_ : _undergo surgical procedure._

The doctor loomed large in the Scythe 2's vision, eyes obscured by his glinting glasses. He looked the Elite up and down. Wrinkles appeared on his otherwise smooth forehead. He sucked in air through his teeth.

"Follow me to the next room, please."

The four of them fell into line, Scythe 2 standing shoulder to shoulder with Scythe 1. The four of them kept a short distance behind the doctor, boots marching in perfect unison. Several sliding plates of metal slid out of the way, and the low blue lighting of the Citadel gave way to something harsher, something even more sterile.

Bright lights shone from medical lamps, their beams falling on steel tables with such a sheen the entire room, barely distorted, could be seen in their surface. Figures lay on some, their flesh pink and stretched thin over their skeletons. Raw red surgical scars dotted their chests and skulls. Many of their arms and legs terminated in sudden stumps, bound over by a pinned flap of skin.

Behind the tables, metal slabs leaned against the wall, several holes marking where the bars would slide over the torso and seal the occupant in place. A thick metal arm dangled stiffly from the ceiling, wires running like protruding veins down its length. The arm terminated at several upturned screens, each currently blaring gray static at nothing. Other arms, thinner and terminating in far finer points, jutted from the base of the TV arm, their needles and blades gleaming dully in the harsh light. A memory stirred in Scythe 2, but found no purchase. He took up position beside an empty table.

"Take position, please." The Elite placed his rifle at the side of the slab before clambering into it. Something prickled at the back of his mind. The metal bars slid tight across his chest, sealing him in place, his arms tucked against his sides.

The doctor strode to the front of the room where a console lay bolted to the floor. He craned his neck over it, tapping out rapidly on the keyboard. Above them, something whirred into life.

Scythe 2 paid the sounds no mind. He stared directly ahead, video feed crackling slightly. The prickling came again, but still found no part of the brain to access. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, and nothing to think about. All he could do was as he was instructed: wait and be improved.

Up above, metal instruments carried on spindly arms rotated like the stars in the night sky. Two of them descended, a needle and a screw, the edge glinting. The TV screen lowered between them, as if it were the head of some spider and the instruments its arms, its head fixing on trapped prey. Underneath the helmet, the masked flesh of the Elite, long dormant, twitched.

"Initiate shutdown procedure per your maintenance codes. Stand by for firmware upgrade."

Scythe 2 stiffened as the corners of his vision grew fuzzy, his brain systematically turning off like someone hitting the lights before leaving the room. _Flick flick flick._ The dark brightened into a light gray. Formless images played across his vision, the product of the screen before him. A series of alien symbols, squirming underneath the bright light, raced beneath his her his helmet.

"This may hurt. But it will improve your chances of survival." The doctor paused. Scythe 2's vision began to swirl. "I will give you everything I can.

Scythe 2's prosthetic eye swiveled in the artificial socket. Information came rocketing in at blinding speeds: combat data, squad formations, weapon ballistic statistics, the state of the Universal Union on Earth. And something, prickling at the back of the neck where hair once lay. _Three suits standing in sealed plinths. So far underground._ An old memory, lingering as a former link on a now broken chain. Useless. It sparked and fizzled away, replaced by raw numbers and a resurgence of undying purpose.

Scythe 2 felt a sharp surge of pressure on either side of his skull, the blades driving deep where the ears no longer resided. The gray changed to a shade of light red. Part of him remembered pain and screaming. His limbs had thrashed then. They had been his limbs – flesh and blood and bone. It had all been pulled away, nerve by nerve, until his throat would no longer obey his own command to scream. Then even the urge to cry out became silenced by the directive paramount.

Now, he could feel nothing. The blades turned and snipped and cut, pulling away the gray and red, but Scythe 2 felt nothing. A single finger twitched as the tools pulled away.

"Step forward. Place yourselves on the table."

Scythe 2's vision did not return. The gray and red faded into darkest black, leaving him hovering in a void of unimaginable vastness and darkness, but still his body complied. It marched forward and folded itself on top of the table, legs swinging over the unseen metal edge. Then he lay perfectly still, barely cognizant of the smooth steel beneath his back. Soft hands felt for the edges of his temples.

"The bleeding is slowing. Good. Apply level 1 sutures and seal … seal him back in."

For a time, a pleasant low buzzing filled Scythe 2's ears. The dark gave way to a light gray, barely visible shapes flitting in and out of his vision. The video feed remained inactive. The low sounds of muttering and clanking could be heard over an only barely audible high-pitched whine. The Elite's finger twitched again. _Three suits._ But the memory remained broken and free of context. His hands flexed and unflexed. He felt lighter, somehow. The memory fell away, and the video feed came live with a hush of static.

 _Wetware upgrade complete. Approximate five point two percent increase in combat effectiveness. Enhanced reflex and tactical analysis package active._

The Elite sat up, his torso bolt upright. He otherwise remained still. The others' video feeds went active, and the Elite picked them each up on his helmet feed, arranging them with a flick of the eye to the upper portions of the screen. None of them looked to each other. They stared straight ahead, waiting.

"You were among the best. Now you are – however barely – in a class of your own."

The doctor lifted Scythe 2's helmet with a steely grip on the left side of the helmet, making the closest thing he could to eye contact. Something clouded the eyes behind the shiny glasses. Something unnecessary and inexplicable rolled down the doctor's cheek and fell to the floor.

"You have your assignment," he murmured, staring down at Scythe 2. Then he let the Elite's head fall away before looking up. "You have your assignment!" he barked to the rest of them. "Dropship coordinates uploaded! Perform well! Humanity depends upon it!"

They pushed themselves to the floor, their boots giving off heavy clunks. Scythe 2 maintained the visual link with the rest of the fire team; as he leaned down to scoop up his own pulse rifle, he could see his movements almost perfectly matched by the rest of the team. They followed Scythe 4, whose table had been stationed closest to the exit, out the door and to the elevator the Administrator had departed on earlier. This time it the elevator descended instead of ascended, and the harsh light of the surgical facility turned to the duller blues of the Citadel proper.

From the elevator, they could see an active production floor of the Citadel. Three gunships lay dormant on racks, their frames stiff and still. A razor train screeched loudly as it trundled by on one of the Citadel's innumerable railroads, its cargo nothing less than more soldiers for the cause. A strider stepped out of view around the corner, its chassis flanked by two scanners, whose lights almost seemed to lead the way for its thudding footsteps. In the center of the floor, casting an updraft they began to feel as the elevator completed its descent, floated a dropship, engines active, wings flared, a heavy cargo container clamped in its grip.

The glass door opened and the soldiers hustled forward, their gear rustling. Some forgotten part of Scythe 2's brain resisted the urge to lift his her his hands before his face against the heavy winds, but stopped himself short of such nonsense. He wore a helmet, and even if he did not, his eye would resist such stimulus. His finger twitched.

Scythe 4 clambered in first, half ass-sliding half shuffling to the furthest end of the craft while Scythe 1 followed in afterward. Scythe 2 came up third, feeling some small amount of relief from getting out of the wind. Scythe 3 stopped at the entrance, pounded twice on the side of the craft, and hopped inside. The container closed shut, leaving them all in total darkness.

 _Time to target: one hour. Enter standby mode._

Consciousness would not be required. With a slight hum, their breaths slowed. Their pulse became sluggish. The grips on their rifles slackened. What little light Scythe 2 could pick out in the craft faded away, and the sound of the dropship died slowly, drifting into little more than the whine of a far off mosquito. Scythe 2 again stood inside a gray void, perceiving nothing, desiring nothing, and fearing nothing.

The container bumped once. _Time to target: t-30 seconds._ The four of them stirred to an approximation of life. Oxygen went in, CO2 went out. Perhaps some unseen muscle twitched. But mostly they clutched their rifles and waited. It was time.

The dropship stopped in place, the container shaking this way and that as it tried to hold its cargo steady. The door snapped open, and Scythe 3 jumped out, pulse rifle at his shoulder, scanning this way and that. Scythe 2 followed suit quickly, taking the right as Scythe 3 took the left, eye scanning for movement. The boots of the others crunched in the gravel as they landed at their target destination. The dropship hooted twice and began its ascent again, scattering bits of gravel and wood in every direction as it took off. With it gone, the four of them could now focus on the scene of devastation before their eyes.

Black smoke and green embers pockmarked building and stone. The settlement, once host to three decaying but still intact buildings, now featured only rubble and a half-destroyed two story shack, its skeleton of a chimney swaying dangerously in the salty breeze. Smears of blood, some of it red, some of it green, streaked across the earth across the rough tarmac of the former outpost. Seagulls wheeled overhead, the only sign of life besides themselves. They could see no bodies, nor any ammo cartridges. Everything appeared … picked clean.

The bridge, high above on their left, also sent up plumes of smoke. Several carriages, half-buried in cooling emerald embers, piled high atop one another, having been interdicted by the same malice that torched the outpost. Scythe 2 sniffed. His helmet picked up trace amounts of ozone, and a whole lot of **UNIDENTIFIED SUBSTANCE.**

"Ready weapons. Stay alert."

Two and Three took the right, heading for the burnt out remains of the two story building, while one and four took the left and began heading for the cliff, closer to the bridge. As the two of them took their first steps towards the shack, familiar audio cut in, nibbled by static.

"Video feed, check, check. Signal looks good. Dr. Tygan, can you hear me?"

"I can hear you, Wallace. My feed is clean." The doctor's deep voice came in less clear than the Administrator's; the end of his sentence cut off with a sudden screech as he stopped transmitting.

"Damage looks consistent with what we have seen thus far," said the Administrator, although he did not sound entirely reassured by this. "Hmm, Airwatch reported losing a gunship in this sector. Any sign of it?"

"We have located no biological detritus." Any one of the fire team could have said it. It did not matter who.

"One and four, check the ocean below. If there is anything to recover, it should still be floating in the jetsam or washed up on shore." The Administrator's fingers drummed against his desk far away, the sound of finger hitting wood coming through the speaker. Scythe 2 himself watched the video feed as his fellows dipped their heads cautiously over the precipice, which plunged about fifty feet below. Nothing floated among the waves except driftwood.

"They are collecting us," said the doctor, sounding if anything, amused. "And we are collecting them. Who will fully get the measure of the other first, I wonder?"

"We both know the answer to that, Dr. Tygan," replied the Administrator, a note of warning in his voice. "If Our Benefactors believed even for a moment that these invaders were pulling ahead of us … well. They would rectify the problem with a sharpness. We cannot allow that. Scythe One, Scythe Four, what can you see on the underside of the bridge?"

"Zero movement." Scythe Two had to concur. The shack smoked and seemed in the final stages before collapse. Checking One and Four's feed, nothing moved on the underside of the bridge, although the four side similarly featured coiling smoke rising into a darkening sky. "No biotics detected. Requesting permission to displace to new sector."

"Very well. Fire team move up to the bridge. Let's see what the damage is."

Scythe 2 snapped to attention with his peers and left the outpost behind. The gravel of the settlement's driveway turned into a gentle slope that led to the railroad itself, where a gap in part of the bridge's waist high barrier permitted access. An overturned rail car, singed with brilliant green, almost blocked their path. They sidled through, rifles held over their heads, Scythe 1 bringing up the rear and covering their advance.

It must have been quite the pile up. The head of the train could not be seen from where they stood, and was likely buried somewhere in the tunnel behind them. The rest of the carriages, some smoking, some not, remained strewn and piled up all over the tracks. One hung precariously over the edge, its front smashed in by the waist-high wall it had careened through on its swift unwanted exodus.

Most curious however, was not what glowed green and smoke. Centered on the remnants of the tracks before the pile up, stood a curious artefact made of some anomalous metal. Orange energy curled from inside it, wafting out in what might have been some kind of smoke. The top part of the artefact rotated above the orange like something out of Xen. Whatever was inside the artefact chimed softly.

"Anomalous reading." Scythe 1 readied his weapon and kept it pointed squarely at the artefact. "Overwatch, requesting directive."

"Approach the object with extreme caution; it may be some kind of explosive device," ordered the Administrator, and Scythe One complied immediately. "Dr. Tygan, any thoughts?"

"Orange is new," said the doctor, and the Administrator snorted in derision.

"Most astute. I am beginning to recall why I rejected your application to Black Mesa."

Scythe 2 maintained her sights on the strange object. Scythe One approached it, gun at the ready, and then finally reached out with his free hand to touch the object. As his gloved fingers slid over the object's rotating top, it hissed, causing him to jump backwards. The object then … opened, its prize spilling now golden light in all directions.

A single crystal, so orange as to be almost gold, glowed from the inside of the container, which now lay still. The four of them stared at it. Something stirred inside Scythe 2. _Don't we need it in the test chamber?_ Despite himself, he shook his head. The memory found a slight crack in the armor and lingered. Three suits, one of them orange, but that was not for-

Scythe 2 shook his head again, sharply.

"Scythe 2, is something wrong? Your feed keeps jerking."

"Status is nominal. Request mission update." The response came automatically. A kernel of anxiety nestled somewhere in Scythe 2's consciousness. _Tygan remembers. Three HEV suits._

"The ah, canister of whatever this is appears ready for extraction," said Dr. Tygan, his own voice shaking a little. "Prep it for transport. Wallace, should we extract them? The area appears clear, and we have already diverted all other trains from the bridge. Is there anything else we can do here?"

"Overwatch, we've got movement. Target my radial, ninety-seven degrees."

Scythe 2's artificial heart initiated a speedier blood flow. His rifle followed Scythe 1's radial call, which fell over the top of the blocked train tunnel entrance. A citizen crouched over the entrance, staring at them intently, his blue clothing inexplicably immaculate. He threw up his hands as they raised their rifles.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The citizen's movements appeared out of the norm, somehow more elastic than normal. Even as he stood to full height, the way his back curved fell outside the standard deviation of human spines, at least to this Elite's calculations. Nevertheless, the order had to be given.

"A witness. Probably Resistance." The Administrator sighed. The citizen still stared down at them without any semblance of fear. "We can use this. Prep him for pick up as well. Our Benefactors may want to examine him personally. He is unarmed?"

"No weapons." Scythe 3 stepped forward, rifle trained on the citizen's face. "Citizen, remain still. Prepping for extraction and wrap up."

"Oh?" The citizen's head tilted. The neck bent a little father than Scythe 2 would have suspected possible. "Four of you? There are four of you?"

"Fire team," said the Administrator coldly, "I advise you to check your vectors. I believe he is trying to distract you."

Scythe One turned checked their rear and called something out. But no sooner had he exposed is back then the citizen lurched back, something bulging from his chest. His head snapped backward and then surged forward, something thick and green belching forth from his thin lips. Some green substance, thicker than smoke, erupted from Scythe 2, filling the air with noxious fumes. His suit acknowledged a chemical alert, but the filters remained intact, and he could still see the target through his sights.

"Unlawful chemical discharge." Scythe 2 and 4 lit up the target, which shrieked inhumanly and fell backwards out of sight. However, Scythe 1's cries soon drowned out the sound of their gunfire.

"Multiple biotics confirmed – fix radials, one-hundred eighty two degrees."

"Bouncer, bouncer!"

Scythe 2 backpedaled hard out of instinct and protocol. Something luminescent green rolled about a foot from where he had previously stood. It burst in a shower of emerald light, sending a tremendous shock of heat in all directions.

"Body pack holding!" Scythe One's left side remained singed and smoking from the blast, but he still knelt in place, firing on the top of the overturned rail carriage behind the orange artifact. Another citizen, this one not even pretending to be human, leapt into the air, flipping out of sight and away from the gunfire, hissing furiously. From behind the carriage, something roared.

"Overwatch, multiple biotics confirmed, stabilization team holding." Scythe One pointed to the edge of the rail car on his right, where the hostiles still waited. "Two, Four, secure that hardpoint. Three, reinforce this position."

"Confirmed. Displacing."

"So they're disguising themselves as citizens now," said the Administrator, sighing. "That's quite the trick. Dr. Tygan, I imagine you're looking forward to seeing how these invaders have managed such a feat?"

"I am at best morbidly curious, Wallace," replied the doctor. "Dr. Breen, we should call in the dropship and bring a reserve. If nothing else, we need to recover the bodies."

"Yes, yes," replied the Administrator, but Scythe 2 could not focus on the rest. He trotted to the corner, weapon automatically reloading, Scythe 4 at his back. He expected the creatures to peek at him from around the corner, or else jump atop the carriage again. That was not what happened.

Something red and enormous _lunged_ from around the corner, roaring. It stood well above human height, and impossibly huge muscles corded its arms. It slammed a meaty fist into its chest twice, roaring, and the entire squad opened fire. The beast charged heedless, green blood spraying as the pulse rounds punched through its armor.

Scythe 2 backpedaled, finger feathering the trigger, but it was not quite enough. The beast wheeled a heavy arm and caught him with a vicious backhand, knocking Scythe 2 sideways. The Elite spun through the air before landing against the orange canister, back cracking at the impact. His grip remained firm around the rifle however, although the blow left his visual feed crackling with static. He grunted with pain, vision spinning.

Scythe 4 fired into the creature, only for it to lunge forward with its other arm. Its knuckle, tipped with spikes, drove deep into Scythe 4's chest plate. Blood rushed out in a stream, and the Elite doubled over with an electronic scream of pain. The beast pulled its bloody knuckles free and drove them skyward in an uppercut. Scythe 4's head parted from his shoulders with a ripping sound, his death rattle echoing even once his head flew clear.

"Scythe 4 down, request reserve activation!"

The beast, chest pocked with holes yet still alive with rage, roared and charged again, this time at the second line. Scythe 2, rifle still following the creature's movements, hit the secondary fire. His pulse rifle hummed and the orb flew free, calculated to compensate for the target's movement.

The orb slammed into the creature and burst, distorting the air. The beast cried out as its form became bathed in brilliant light, and it gently floated into the air, its body disintegrating before their eyes. Scythe 2 heaved a sigh of what might have been relief. For a moment, all felt still and sanguine. Then two more massive creatures burst from around the corner, carrying guns as big as he was.

"Two contacts! Overwatch, sector is not controlled."

The Administrator shouted something over the radio, but all became deafened by smoke and alien screams. The creatures loosed brilliant bolts of viridian light at Scythe 1 and 3 returned fire, crouched behind a smoldering chunk of former train. Scythe 2 could not rise to his feet, so instead desperately scooted around the strange canister, trying to reposition himself behind it.

"Outbreak-" called out Scythe 1, only to be cut off with a strangled cry. Scythe 2 flipped on to his belly and pointed his rifle at the two hulking creatures. _Armor is thick._ However, something round, green, and spherical hung on the belt of the closer soldier. The green flew thick and fast from their rifles, the air shimmering with heat at their passage. Despite there being no combat directive for such an action, Scythe 2 took aim, some memory finding purchase in his her his rattled mind.

"Overwatch, request reserve a-" Scythe 3 heaved a cry as he too fell. The creatures bellowed in triumph, pounding their chests hard enough to echo off the side of the train tunnel. Scythe 2 sucked in a breath. The further alien soldier turned and saw her, yellow eyes narrowing with hate. He pointed at where Scythe 2 lay.

Too late. Scythe 2 let off a single sharp burst. The alien grenade exploded in a dazzling display of emerald, the blast casting everything momentarily in shadow. The alien who bore the grenade vanished entirely, consumed by the flame he sought to wield. The other flew backwards, weapon flying out of his hands and over the bridge's edge and likely into the ocean. With a cough and a spray of yellow gas from his mask, he fell still as well.

Scythe 2 lay there, alone on the bridge, with only the sea's wind blowing across the bridge for company. without the use of his legs. He breathed heavily.

"An impressive display of your new combat protocols, Dr. Tygan," said the Administrator, now audible thanks to the chaos's cease. "A pity it did not appear to take with the other three. This one's vitals appear strong."

"Yes," replied the doctor, and Scythe 2's memory stirred at his hard and thoughtful tone. _Only one of us dodged the Aperture. A phone call._ But it faded quickly. "I must confess some surprise of my own at this outcome. We are fortunate to have any survivors. It appears the enemy has brought some impressive physical specimens of their own."

"We will have to see about uploading these wetware upgrades to the rest of the Transhuman Overwatch," said the Administrator. "Scythe 2, two dropships are inbound to your location. You will be restored to full physical functionality, and all alien materiel will be recovered. Be at peace, soldier, you have done your duty to humanity."

Some buried part of Scythe 2 swelled at this, but whether it was in pride or … something else, remained beyond his capability to comprehend. He merely waited there, silent and still amidst the ruin of foe and friend alike, watching the sun set on the ocean's horizon.

Beneath the mask, he smiled, but did not know why. Something inexplicable and unnecessary collected beneath the eye socket he no longer needed.


	8. Hundred Miles

Carrying the old man made sense. Adrian had thrown a few comrades over his shoulders in field exercises back in Arizona and dragged a few more in Black Mesa. In a way, it was like he had never left the desert.

Adrian didn't recognize the old man's face, but his voice sounded familiar. Plus, he was armed and American, which meant he was most likely a friendly. The sound of his voice, the weight on his back and shoulders, and the sun on his face all felt right. _Away from the dark. From Black Mesa._

Little else made sense. The trees, evergreens by the look of them, made him guess he was either up in Oregon or Washington or on the East Coast, which Adrian had never visited but the greenery reminded him of that TV series with the clown that ate children – wasn't that in Maine?

Adrian adjusted the man on his back and kept his eyes planted firmly on the sword lady ahead of him. _We're putting ladies on the front line now? With swords?_ He'd heard drill instructors rant about this kind of shit. The ladies part, not the swords. Adrian could think of quite a few marines who would carry swords into combat if they could get away with it. _Eh, I'll stick with the KA-BAR._

So yeah, the lady did not make sense, the horrible screeching tripods were a bit worrying, and the guy on his back got heavier with every step Adrian took. Still, he could breathe in the free air and listen to the bird song. He knew he was closer to home. _Probably don't have reception out here. Once we get to wherever they're based, I'll see about getting my hands on a satellite phone._ He wasn't sure if the CIA were still trying to wax him or not, but if the tripods were running around and impaling people, chances were good the word about Black Mesa was out. _And mom will be worried sick._

The lady, Jane Kelly, who had gasped her name through gritted teeth while clutching her broken arm, whistled loudly as they cleared the eighth wooded hill (Adrian had counted), and Adrian adjusted the old man's body with a grunt. Three boys in the same "uniform" as Jane Kelly, some kind of green or blue Kevlar vest, beanie, and a pair of jeans, emerged from behind several trees in front of them. _Some kind of guerilla organization? How long have I been gone? Did the aliens win? It would explain the lady part and the sword part._ One of them carried an RPG launcher in his arms, and he planted the laser sight planted firmly on Adrian's chest. Adrian just shrugged at him.

"I'm carrying your wounded. Point that somewhere else."

"He's fine!" snarled Kelly, waving off her friends' protests and questions. "My fucking arm's broke, half the team is dead, and there are more packs out there. Do you think I've got time for this? Bradford needs medical attention!"

Bradford. Right. The old man's name. It sounded familiar to Adrian, but so did Jane Kelly, to start with. He just bit his lip and followed the procession of guerilla fighters past the latest thicket of trees, bending his knees a little so Bradford did not drag against quite so many low-hanging pine needles. Pointed leaves still fell to the forest floor like emerald rain as he passed under.

As he came free of the thicket and emerged into a clearing, his heart jolted. A grey silo stretched up from the green terrain like a boil on the surface of the earth. Faded Acrylic lettering dotted bent metal signs erected next to rusted chain link fences. More guerillas emerged from a wooden hut to their immediate left, carrying medical kits which were most certainly not IFAKs.

A single creature, familiar in its posture and gait, looked up at him from behind them all, its red eyes centered on his exposed face. Its three arms met in the center of its torso, and it inclined its oddly shaped head. Adrian alone stared at it, the sweat forming between his knuckles and under his shirt. _Shit. They won._

That had been his first thought. His second?

 _This isn't the United States._

Adrian offered the old man up without a sound and did not resist as a soldier took him by either arm. He had marched their wounded into their camp only to be taken prisoner. _Out of Black Mesa and into … what?_ What was the deal with the tripods? Were the CIA still after him? Did anyone else make it out of Black Mesa?

They took Adrian inside the perimeter of the silo and down, down into the dark. As the elevator descended, Adrian stared dumbly at what was unmistakably a Soviet era missile looming above him. Another three-armed alien padded by on one of the catwalks surrounding the missile. Inexplicably, this one wore a lab coat.

The men on either side of Adrian said nothing as they descended. They pulled him, gently but in a way that suggested resistance would be unwise, forward and into a hallway with a series of concrete rooms on either side. Musty cots hung from the walls on chains. Most had blankets. None had pillows.

"Here," said one, and Adrian could not help but note the way the man spat out the "r." _This guy isn't American._ Kelly had sounded American enough, and Bradford was definitely from the U.S., but this guy sounded … different. Hard to tell with just one word.

Adrian expected to get shoved inside, but instead, they held open the door and gestured him to get in, as if they were a chauffeur and he some VIP. He had stared at them dully, back aching from Bradford's weight. Neither man reached his height – hell, neither looked like they even reached 5'10. Adrian noted the bagginess of the clothes and the gauntness of the faces. Whoever these people were, whatever they were experiencing, it had not been on a full stomach. _I could take them. Only …_ Each carried an MP7 in their arms. The way they carried them, pointed at the ground but definitely in Adrian's general direction, did not suggest they were unfamiliar in their handling. _If I just had my PCV…_

Adrian dutifully shuffled inside, shoulders bowed, and sat down atop the cot. The barred door squeaked shut, and the lock clicked. The two soldiers departed, talking under their breath. _Shephard. 86752056._ Technically, that was all he was required to report. Only thing was, he had questions. _Who are you? Did the aliens win? …can I call my mom?_ If they were going to kill him, the last question was the only one that mattered. Adrian hoped they would understand.

Adrian folded his legs over the cot and let himself lie down. Even though the dusty green mattress did little to hide the hard metal beneath it, it still felt mercifully comfortable compared to hauling the unconscious Bradford on a wilderness hike. And, even stuck in a hostile secret military/science base in the middle of nowhere, it still felt better than Bl … shit, no it really didn't.

Nevertheless, Adrian shut his eyes and fell asleep easily, perhaps without meaning to. When he woke, it was to find someone tapping on his door. He wiped the sweat from his brow, the dreams fading already. _It involved a crash._ He could remember the sound of gunfire. But now, a strange woman, brown hair done up in a ponytail, watched him from the other side of the door. It looked like Jane Kelly, but her arm looked fine. She even waved it in a stiffly cheerful fashion at him.

"Sorry about this, Corporal. It is Corporal, right? Corporal Shephard?"

"Shephard," said Adrian, tongue feeling large and fuzzy in his mouth. "Eight-six-seven-five-two-zero-five-six."

The Jane Kelly doppelganger tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips.

"Um, okay. Bradford wants to see you. He has some questions. He says you were at Black Mesa."

"Yeah," replied Adrian, before his brain could catch up to his mouth. He coughed and pushed himself up from the cot, dusting off his olive green shirt as he rose. "I mean-" He paused. _Fuck it. Aliens invaded._ "Yes, I served at Black Mesa. Where am I?"

Jane Kelly (had to be her, based on the voice – Adrian added "what the hell happened to your broke-ass arm" to the list of questions) pursed her lips again. Her brow furrowed. Adrian's heart jolted again when he realized what that look meant. _Bad news. She doesn't want to be the one to break it. Something's wrong._

"I'll talk to Bradford," offered Adrian, trying to bail her out. "He's American, right? Military?" _At least let him be USMC or, fuck it, Navy._

"Yes," said Jane Kelly, drawing out the "s." Adrian sensed a "but," but Kelly was not forthcoming. She opened the door with a squeak and waited for him. Adrian shuffled to the door, quickly scanning the woman. Unlike the men before, she didn't carry a gun. She too, possessed a gauntness of the face, the flesh clinging too sharply to the cheek bones. _She could barely be 5'4._ Adrian didn't like to brag, but he felt confident about taking on a woman he had nine inches and a good hundred and twenty pounds on, regardless of whatever crazy-ass paramilitary CQB she might have been taught. Still, he couldn't bring himself to do anything more than watch her and think. _She killed that thing with a sword. She brought me here. She's been polite._

Adrian needed something solid before wasting somebody. _Doesn't mean I'm a bad marine. I just need to have a plan to kill everyone I meet. And I do._

A quick blow to the side of the neck from behind would do it. Make sure she didn't make any more sound once she fell down, either by stepping on her throat or getting up close and personal and using his hands … Adrian felt better as he followed Jane Kelly back down the corridor of cells, idly contemplating how best to murder her if the need arose.

"My arm healed okay once they got me a medkit," said Kelly, making Adrian snap out of his violent reverie, "but Bradford took some internal damage. He's only just got out of bed. I don't think his age is helping much; probably best if he stayed out of the field for a bit. He acted like he knew you."

"His name does sound familiar," said Adrian carefully. "Your arm's all better?"

"A little stiff," said Kelly, shaking her right arm out and grimacing. "But yeah, fine. Got really lucky. Taking out hunters in close combat is supposed to be suicide. Wouldn't have tried it if the alternative hadn't been worse."

 _I know how that feels._ Adrian looked Kelly up and down. The thinness extended to her waist and hips as well. _She might not even be a hundred pounds._ Part of Adrian felt bad for thinking about how best to kill the woman if she turned out to be a bad guy. The other parts simply added her relatively low weight, even for her size, to a list of potential weaknesses.

The elevator went up this time, even past where Adrian had stepped on it originally. He leaned against the side of it and eyes Jane Kelly, who took up the opposite end and smiled nervously at him. _Could shove her over the edge of the elevator._ Adrian returned the smile with his own mild version.

They reached the top, and the elevator shutter doors opened. Angry voices bounced off the close steel walls of the silo as they stepped off. Jane motioned him to follow and proceeded down the closest open blast door, passing several closed ones in the process. The voices grew louder as they reached the end of the hallway to another sealed door. Jane hastily tapped a few keys on a numpad to the left of it, and then stepped back.

"…two men dead, the rest of you injured, the Combine enraged, and all for a hunch?" bellowed a man as they stepped inside, the air suddenly growing warmer. This room featured a warm brown color palette, complete with a couch to Adrian's right, and a series of empty screens directly ahead of him. Bradford, face ashen, sat atop the couch with his arms folded, a man in a light blue labcoat standing above him and gesticulating fiercely. The labcoat man turned sharply as they entered.

"Ah, and here's the prize we have been so desperately seeking since the last twelve hours!" said the doctor, his worn face pinching in disgust. "Corporal Adrian Shephard, was it? Please – sit down!" He gestured to the couch. "Long have we awaited your presence! Please, sit and regale us of your exploits! After all, we have all just been dying to meet you – for the last twelve hours."

"Dr. Magnusson," said Bradford through clenched teeth, "the Combine clearly valued him, and would you pass on a Black Mesa survivor?"

"Oh, God forbid I pass on a Black Mesa survivor," barked Magnusson, holding his hand to his chest in mock shock. "I would do _anything_ for a fellow victim of that tragic incident … only, I do not recall the Hazardous Environment Combat Unit being among the victims, when all was said and done, but rather a catalyst for the next stage of misery for the facility. I reserve my sympathies, sir, for the staff of that research institute, and _no one else!_ "

"You've made your point." Bradford stood, one of his legs trembling. He nonetheless stood just above Magnusson, his scarred face contorting with irritation. "What's done is done. I consider the Combine's rage a point in my favor. Why don't you let me talk to Corporal Shephard and determine if all your outrage is going to waste or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Magnusson made a dismissive gesture and tried to shoulder his way past Adrian, only to glance off Adrian's unyielding form. " _Excuse_ me."

Dr. Magnusson's footsteps faded quickly, leaving the three of them standing awkwardly. Bradford slowly leaned back down to the couch with a grimace, eyes on Adrian all the while. Adrian stared back. _Hardly need a plan for killing this guy. I have to be at least half his age, and the aliens did most of my job already._

"Jane, could you go get us some water?" asked Bradford.

"You got it, John."

"Adrian," said Bradford, watching Adrian. He nodded. "Yeah. It is you. Not just you, but as you were, way back when. Sit down, Corporal." He gestured to a chair in the corner. Adrian rolled it up, not turning his back to the old man all the while. He sat down gingerly. The rusted piece of crap felt like it might fold under his weight.

"Do you remember me? Adrian?" Adrian shook his head. Bradford sighed. "Captain John Bradford, recent transfer to your unit. We waited for your Osprey for an hour. It never arrived. Do you remember?"

"Bradford…" replied Adrian, remembering. _He'd stopped by our fire team while we were in the mess. Said scuttlebutt was we'd be working together._ "You were at Black Mesa?"

"First wave," replied Bradford, smiling grimly. "That was before we lost control of the air. Hell, it was before the invasion had really begun in earnest. When we first starting cleaning the facility out, it felt more like shooting wild animals than anything." The smile twisted back into a grimace. "That changed fast."

"But … you're so old."

Bradford let out a bark of laughter, but there was an edge of hysteria to it that Adrian did not like at all. When Bradford next looked at Adrian, he saw the same look in his eye that he saw in marines stepping off the plane that had taken them home from the sandbox. A look that said "here we are…" and not quite believing it. _Too much hurt for things to go back to normal._

"Do you know what the date is, Adrian?"

Adrian shook his head, a cold fist gripping his heart, poised to squeeze.

"You've been gone, haven't you?"

Adrian nodded. "There was this huge green fucker. I killed it. Then…" _Then what? Do you really think he'd buy it? He probably thinks you're crazy already._ "Then I woke up in the forest."

"Hardly the strangest story to come out of Black Mesa. I look forward to hearing the rest of it. But … that's not as important as debriefing you on what has happened since then. Adrian."

"Corporal," snapped Adrian, not sure why. "Corporal Shephard."

"Corporal," agreed Bradford, smiling sadly. He took one long, lingering look at Adrian. "The date is … well, the month and day are indeterminate at this stage, but we have the year, more or less. The year is 2027. Twenty years into the Combine occupation of Earth. Twenty years since the Resonance Cascade, AKA, the Black Mesa incident. By my count, Corporal, you should be forty-two years old. But that is clearly not the case."

Adrian shut his eyes. His heart pounded. His fists clenched, fingers sliding a little against the sweat. _That can't be right. That can't be right. He's lying. He's wrong. He's crazy._ But he knew the sound of Bradford's voice. He could recognize the face, now. He had seen it, once. It had looked twenty years younger, then.

"You're twenty years late, Corporal," said Bradford, sadness etched into his voice. "The last man to stagger out of Black Mesa. Welcome back to the living."

"No," grunted Adrian, lips suddenly trembling. "No, no this can't be right."

"After the Resonance Cascade, the initial invasion was halted, some say by one Gordon Freeman." Bradford's face twitched momentarily. "This is unconfirmed, but some reliable sources claim that whatever superorganism was orchestrating the initial invasion was killed by the scientist. How, I have no idea."

 _Gordon Freeman._ The others had kept mentioning the man. _Looked like an orange popsicle. Killed entire fire teams with just a crowbar._ The whole facility by that point had felt like, not so much that it had gone insane, but rather that the insanity had become ingrained and ordinary, so that a crazed scientist killing people with a device designed to leverage open crates seemed relatively humdrum. _Did I see him?_ A flash of orange before some kind of portal. Adrian could just barely remember. _The others wanted a shot at Freeman, but I was the only one to make it that far…_

"The facility was nuked several hours later," continued Bradford, no longer meeting Adrian's gaze. "By then, I was back in medical in Santego. We were only nineteen percent combat effective by that point. Then … the air shook. The ground trembled." Bradford shut his eyes tight.

"A new invasion. One we were not prepared for. The entire world fell under a shadow, and was consumed. All our militaries, all our weapons, all our technology … it bought us seven hours of time. Then we surrendered."

 _So all of that was for nothing?_ Adrian fought the urge to giggle. _Did I really kill all of those aliens and CIA … only for some totally unrelated alien invasion to take the planet out while I was gone?_

"This might be a bit much to take in," continued John, looking to Adrian with concern, "and I am sure you will need evidence. We have plenty to pick from. You saw the hunters, those tripods. There's plenty others. Some creatures we first saw at Black Mesa have spread far and wide. Headcrabs. Bullsquid. Barnacles. Vortigaunts, which we now call our allies – those would be the three-armed aliens that can shoot electricity."

"So, they're not the ones in charge?" asked Adrian, suddenly desperately hoping that were the case. _They die easy enough._

"No." John Bradford's fingers drummed against his pale forearm. "No, Adrian, they're in the same boat as the rest of us. Resisting the Combine Empire."

"Corporal, damn it!" Adrian stood up sharply, the piece of shit chair flung backwards behind him with a clang. "Corporal Shephard, 86752056, Hazardous Environment Combat Unit, United States Marine Corps! I … I…"

"Captain John Bradford, Hazardous Environment Combat Unit, United States Marine Corps." John stood up and stared levelly at Adrian. "Stand down, Corporal. Stand down."

Adrian breathed out sharply. _Don't cry, damn it, pull yourself the fuck together, you're out of Black Mesa, you're a goddamn marine, you eat danger and shit victory. You've killed things the size of this silo._ His breathing slowed. _But…_

"Captain," said Adrian, staring at a point past John's shoulder, "I want to go home."

"Yeah." Bradford nodded once, then twice. He wiped his eyes sharply, unexpectedly. "Me too."

The door opened again behind them. Jane Kelly stood awkwardly at the entrance, a mug in each hand. "I brought you guys water."

"Thank you, Jane." Bradford reached out without looking to her. She handed off one mug. Jane approached Adrian gingerly. He breathed heavily, in and out, but still accepted the mug. She backed away sharply.

"Do you need a moment alone, Adrian?" asked John. Adrian nodded, staring down at the slightly murky cup of water. "All right, we can continue this in a minute. I know it's a lot to take in. I know it's … a lot to go over, even for me." He reached forward and gingerly squeezed Adrian's shoulder. Adrian flinched slightly. "There is hope, okay? We wouldn't be here if there wasn't. Besides, being out here, free and away from the Combine? It's a lot better than the alternative."

"Sure." It came out flat, like a slab of stone hitting the ground. _I want to call my mom._ But if they were to be believed, that most likely hadn't been an option for…

The door shut again. Adrian stared into the water. _I asked if this was Black Mesa. He said no. I thought things had to be improving._ Adrian lifted the mug to his lips … and then hurled it full force against the wall.

It shattered into a hundred pieces, each jagged and gleaming in the light. And they hung there, frozen, the water inside a miniaturized aquatic bomb about to detonate all over the gleaming steel floor. And it hung there, frozen. The air become still. Adrian's breath became the loudest thing in the room.

"Corporal Shephard."

Adrian turned towards the screens. Static danced across all nine of them. He stood on the other side of them, face pinched, hair and suit impeccable. Nevertheless, he straightened his red tie, and smiled thinly.

"You…"

"I do apologize for the lateness of my arrival, Corporal, but recent events have forced an … adjustment, to the terms of one of my contracts." The man's words came haltingly, elongating some syllables and dancing quickly over others. The G-Man sucked in a deep breath, his green eyes glimmering in the monitors. "And I am deeply afraid I must follow this first apology with another: after much discussion with my employers, we are afraid your services will be quite unnecessary."

"What?" Adrian took a step closer to the monitors. He and they were the only thing in the room that still moved. "I remember you. I remember you and I said nothing. Please – you have to get me home!"

"It was only after much discussion and deliberation that we were able to negotiate a satisfying solution to your … predicament," continued the G-Man, heedless of Adrian's words. "Once again, they insisted on your, ah, "guaranteed silence," which I believed then, as I do now, to be entirely unnecessary. I was unfortunately unable to convince them of your uses, of which I know are many, as they believed your talents to be … redundant, given another one of our assets."

"Nevertheless, I persevered and explained that any potential security breaches were long negated by the current state of the planet, and the worst excesses of the Black Mesa Incident had been exposed for over a decade. Even if you gave in to that human temptation of telling all … there are few left to tell it to. And none who care."

"Please…" Adrian crawled on the floor, knees scraping against the tile. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but please. Take back time, teleport me, whatever. I'll do whatever you want. Please."

The G-Man looked down at Adrian with something that might have been pity. His lips twisted in what might have been a smirk.

"I am sorry, Corporal, but that has never been an option. It is too late, in any case. Your services are not required, and neither is your silence. You are freed from any and all obligation. Your odds of survival … well." The G-Man adjusted his tie. "I cannot comment. However, I am sure you will adapt and overcome, as your pedigree demands. After all, you do so remind me of myself."

The G-Man began to fade away.

"Be well, Corporal Shephard. We will not meet again. Your fate is yours, wholly."

"Come back!" screamed Adrian, launching himself at the screen. "Come-"

The mug exploded. Water showered the floor. Rough hands seized Adrian from behind, pulling him away from the screens. For a time, Adrian struggled, insensate, but could not pull free from the multitude of limbs that bound him.

It took him a long time to come to, through the haze of crimson tears. John Bradford stared at him sadly from the other side of the door. Adrian sat up on his cot.

"Captain, can I get a sat phone?" Adrian stared up at the man, who in the shadows looked twenty years older than he should have. "I need to call mom and let her know I'm okay."


	9. Pathogen Incursion

Barney's hands were slick with sweat beneath the gloves. He gripped the airboat's handles firmly as he made the turn down the tunnel, breathing a sigh of relief on seeing the gate was down. ET's corpse pressed against his backside as he applied the brake and his vehicle came skidding to a soggy halt.

Barney pulled his right glove free and shook the hand out. When he put his two fingers to his mouth to whistle, the fingers felt clammy and wrinkled as they touched his lips. Nevertheless, the two high notes came out loud and clear, bouncing further down the tunnel. It took a solid few seconds for the sound to fade completely. He placed the glove in his pocket before pulling the other one free.

"Clear!" A man in blue Resistance garb, a pistol at his belt, came running along the topside of the gate, the beam of a flashlight dancing merrily before him. Barney squinted as the man turned the flashlight at him. "Yep! It's him. Good to see you, Calhoun."

Something clanked off to Barney's left and the gate rose from the still waters, putrid brown droplets shaking off its rusted exterior. Barney lightly applied the gas and drew up alongside a short pier, the paint long since flaked off its ancient wood. A vortigaunt padded up to the shore, extending a hand to Barney on his boat. He took it gratefully, letting himself be pulled up and hoisted over to the dry land.

"The Barney Calhoun," said the vortigaunt, relinquishing his grip and bowing his head. "It is fortuitous that you have made it this far."

"Haven't been hearing any warning sirens!" called out the man from behind him cheerfully, his own boots squeaking against the dock as he joined the two of them. Barney turned to him just in time to see him frown and scratch his eyebrow. "Well, not about you, anyway. They seem more concerned about an exogen breach…?"

Barney jerked a thumb back to the stiff body in his airboat. "Yeah. That."

"Ah. So this is the interloper." The vortigaunt leaned down close over the boat, the top part of his lip peeled back, exposing sharp teeth. "The Eli Vance will know what to make of this. They are already making headway at the coast. Contact with the Shore Point has been lost."

"Station 6 has been wiped out," said Barney, folding his arms. "Weird thing was, some guys looking like citizens but, uh, acting like snakes, tried to head me off beforehand. Then the Combine shelled the area. They didn't touch Station 7, though."

"Rest of the Railroad's okay," called out a feminine voice from beyond. A woman in grey-green Resistance getup emerged from the tin shack up the flight of stairs from the dock. "Hey Barney. Eli's on the horn." She folded her arms and pursed her lips. "You … you weren't followed were you?"

"Not as far as I can tell. It's pretty dark outside." Barney made his way up the steps, pausing at the top to remove his boots and turn them upside down. Green-brown water slid out of his boots in a congealed mess. He sighed and left the boots where they were. "Ugh. No choppers, no UFOs, CP was asleep a their desks. Been pretty quiet." _Here's hoping it stays that way._

"All right. Good." She gestured inside the doorway. As Barney stepped inside, sodden socks squishing against the wood floor, the familiar crackle of a radio greeted his ears.

Barney hit the transmit button, sprawling on the rolling chair before the radio. "Hey doc, it's me."

"Barney! Thank God. Station 7 radioed in to let us know you weren't in the shelling, but even Alyx doesn't like taking that route at night…"

"Why not? It's quiet." Barney stifled a yawn and then wiped his eyes. His vision drifted slightly. _Ugh. See if they've got any coffee before I finish the trip._ "Haven't seen any little green men, my passenger's been cooperative, and it seems like the Combine are turning their attention inwards. Which makes sense, seeing as I was jumped by three fellas who looked like citizens but sure as hell weren't."

"What?" A note of alarm gripped Eli's tone. "Plainclothes Combine…?"

"No, doc. The aliens have taken to putting on civvies and pretending to be refugees." Barney wiped his brow. "Uh, they wanted the body. When I didn't hand it over, they pulled weird laser guns out of their asses and started shooting the station up. Then the Combine shelled the area; I think they had the station pre-sighted for mortar fire."

"But how could they do that unless…?" Eli took a breath over the radio. "We need to uproot every station on the railroad. We've got a spy."

"Yeah. Figured as much." _And it's only going to get worse if the aliens get in on the whole espionage thing._ Barney shook his head, fighting off another wave of exhaustion. "No sign of any Combine or alien activity so far. It's just a few more bend up the river, right?"

"Yes, Barney. You're close." Eli paused, likely thinking. Barney understood. He could remember what it felt like, to think. Right now all he could think about was a nice cup of coffee. "You might want to hole up there for a day before finishing the trip tomorrow night. There's only a few hours left until dawn."

Barney stroked his chin. _Hmm. Sleep_ and _coffee._ But there was something niggling at the back of his mind.

"Doc, you just said we gotta uproot every station. I figure it's only a matter of time before those bastards do a full sector sweep." Barney did not relish saying this. He could feel a dull headache building behind his eyes. "Way I see it, these guys gotta get moving, and I could be putting 'em at risk."

"Are you sure, Barney?" Barney could not help but appreciate the tone of genuine concern. _God bless you, doc._

"I dunno about sure, but it's what I'm gonna do." Barney rose from the table, thumb still on the transmitter. "Just, uh, make sure you've got a bed ready for me when I get there. Other than that, everything'll be fine. Trust me."

"All right, Barney. Good luck. God bless. We'll see you soon." Eli's voice cut off with a snap. Barney lifted his hands over his shoulders and let the fingers interlink. It felt like every bone in his body just cracked. He let out a yawn and headed for the entrance. To his complete lack of surprise, everyone had been listening in.

"Sounds like we've gotta pack up," said the man. Barney assumed he was the station head. "You're heading on out of here?"

"Not without some coffee?" Barney ended the sentence on a faintly pleading tone. The man smirked.

"Yeah, sure. Gimme a minute." He headed back indoors.

"The Barney Calhoun's airboat lacks defenses other than its inherent speed." The vortigaunt inclined his head again, and then gestured to what looked like some kind of anchor to his left. "We would be honored to impart this weapon for the remainder of the journey."

"Yeah, carrying that thing will be a real bitch. Although I guess we could fix it to our own boat." The woman paused, frowning, but then shrugged. "Well, hell. We only got the one. You figure you could use it?"

Barney looked at the anchor again. Then he saw the barrel. _Jesus, that thing's huge._

"Came off a hunter chopper," said the woman, noting his surprise. "Yeah, they're not invincible, especially when they aren't in the air. You ever seen one of those guns in action?"

"Yeah," said Barney, thinking back to some of his time with Civil Protection. "They can sure lay down the hurt." He stopped, thinking about coffee. The man emerged with a steaming cup in his hands, and Barney accepted it gingerly. _Christ, that's just what I needed._ He stopped thinking about coffee. "I think I'm good."

"The Barney Calhoun is certain?" asked the vortigaunt, red eyes looking in puzzlement to Barney. Barney shrugged.

"Dunno about certain, but that gun's yours. Made it this far without a peep from anybody, figure attaching a gun to my boat might change that. Besides, there's three of you and one of me. Needs of the many, I guess."

The man clapped a hand on Barney's shoulder, only to immediately apologize as Barney's coffee swilled dangerously close to the mug's brim.

"Uh, sorry. I mean – thanks, Barney. We appreciate it. We'll start packing up once you're gone."

"You're a class act, Calhoun," said the woman, smiling.

"The Barney Calhoun's sacrifice will not go unnoticed by those who weave the Vortessence."

"Yeah, I'm hoping it's not a sacrifice." Barney lifted the steaming mug to his lips, feeling his insides warm up. He glanced dolefully at his sodden boots. "You got a place I can dry those things?"

After twenty minutes placed as close to the stove as they dared, the boots went from water-logged to simply a little damp. The mug lay finished, and now Barney craved beer. _I mean, beer and driving an airboat at night. What could go wrong?_ Barney's imagination conjured up a good few answers, some involving ichthyosaurs, and he resigned himself to strapping his boots back on and straddling the airboat seat completely sober.

The second gate clanked as the chains rose it up, black water sliding off its bottom.

"Take care Calhoun! You're almost there!"

"Mind the barnacles!"

Barney, hands freshly gloved, lifted a hand in farewell and then gunned the airboat down the tunnel. He quickly twisted part of the handle to turn on the flashlight. Good thing too, as the entire tunnel roof glistened with barnacles, just as they had warned. He steered between them carefully, already wishing he'd bought the gun. _Entire planet needs a cleanup._ Yet another thing the Combine didn't bother with. _Hell, just a few hours ago, they were dumping more hostile xenian wildlife into Station 6._

Barney patted the bulging backpack behind him with an unsteady hand. The tunnel widened out into a waterway. Now, the canals gave way to more natural rivers and streams. When he looked to either side of him, some of the cityscape gave way to dead trees and the dark shapes of hills. Barney kept his gaze on the water before him. Despite the blare of his airboat's beams and the roar of its engine, he passed through a waterway checkpoint without difficulty, no one rousing to stop him. He pressed onward, the clammy night air warming around him by the minute.

Despite the smell of the fetid water and the chill settling in his spine, Barney could not help but remember days spent driving at night on the highways back in the U.S., the lights of other cars streaming past him endlessly in the other direction. _A soda in the drink holder. Boston playing on the radio._ That reality seemed impossible, now. _What do those highways look like, these days?_

At long last, Barney came to a sight he could actually remember from his last trip out this way. A short tunnel gave way to a huge lake, still in the very early morning. The very first hint of orange rose from the other side of the shoreline, turning everything into the very light gray of early morning, making Barney immediately crave more coffee. Barrels and small logs bobbed on the surface of the water, gently floating away as Barney carefully drove past them. Several concrete structures dotted a hill on the distance, and a very familiar dam rose into the sky on his right.

 _There. Home._ At the bottom (quite a drop if Barney remembered correctly) would be Black Mesa East in all its PTSD-inflicting glory. Unfortunately, none of the gates appeared to be open. _Right. Should be controls at the observation station…?_

Barney gunned the airboat forward into the lake proper, disturbing the stillness. Hair prickled on the back of his neck. He looked around, suspicious. Only the chirping of crickets greeted him. _Come on, Barney. Almost there._ He started forward again. This time, something else greeted him.

Lights flashed in the distance. Something thumped and kept thumping, like a mouse's heartbeat on a monitor. Movement disrupted the view of the early morning horizon. _Chopper!_ Barney turned off the light.

"That thing's not coming towards me," said Barney, smiling and nodding his head, keeping his head down and accelerating further. He glanced up. The hunter chopper now almost hovered on top of the lake. "Nope. It doesn't know I'm here."

From above, something hummed as if charging up. The chopper tilted itself upward, revealing the gun pointing straight at his airboat.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck-"

Barney pealed hard to the left. The airboat frame pinged once as a pulse round slammed into it, the heat from the impact almost burning his cheek. The water around him churned and splashed as bullets slammed into the surface. He grunted as something hard slammed into his back, forcing him forward. His full body weight sprawled momentarily against the airboat controls, almost flipping the boat over. Something heavy splashed into the water behind Barney. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the stream of fire stopped.

"Dammit, E.T, what're we gonna-" Barney shifted his behind, suddenly realizing a familiar presence had vanished. He looked over his shoulder. The backpack floated serenely in the lake behind him. "Oh, come on!"

Barney felt for his back. His hand came away with only a little blood. All the while, he kept his airboat turning. The hunter chopper flew to the other side of the lake before stopping, turning, and training his gun on him again. In the silent distance, lights flashed again.

"Vital alert: autoimmune dysfunction detected. Protection agencies are compromised. Inquire. Isolate. Sterilize."

 _I think they just identified my uniform._ Barney revved the airboat twice, deeply regretting many things, but most of all, turning down that gun. He sent the airboat forward as the chopper made its next pass, this time turning his airboat and slamming it against a jutting rock, disrupting the chopper's targeting. It made the pass without firing once.

"All autonomous units: Airwatch reports localized disturbance in your sector-" but the rest was cut off by Barney's airboat roaring up to the floating backpack. He reached down and tried to pull the body up with one hand. He got it an inch off the water before it fell back in, the drenched fabric adding to the weight.

"Fuck it!" Barney looked up. The hunter chopper now faced towards him again. The gun began to whir.

Barney, in pain and out of options, sucked in a deep breath, and flung himself from the airboat.

The brown water came up quickly, and the chill felt more intense than Barney would have guessed. His breath came out in a shock of bubbles as he pushed himself towards the bottom of the lake, legs kicking. Then, as the bullets fell like rain, he curled himself up, close to the bottom, praying silently to no one in particular, face numb from the cold.

The gunshots stopped. Barney flipped around and kicked the bottom of the leg, legs sinking to the ankle before he found firm ground. Still, he rose from the water, choking, right arm flailing to catch ahold of the backpack. He pushed it towards the airboat, where it slapped against the skid. Barney swam towards the boat, entire body shaking, partly from cold, partly from fear. _When's it make its next pass?_

But Barney clambered back aboard without the hunter chopper flying overhead. He pulled the backpack aboard with both arms, grunting, placing the frigid backpack behind him. Up ahead, the hunter chopper-

-exploded?

A flaming piece of metal erupted from the hunter chopper, which blared a warning siren. Green blasts leapt into the sky from unseen figures, and the hunter chopper took swift evasive action, turning back towards the dam gates, gun trained on unseen entities.

"Localized exogen breach confirmed. Mobilizing local protection teams. Alerting extraterrestrial combat units. Readying air assets for pathogen filtration."

The hunter chopper blared more warning notes. Barney turned his airboat towards the closed gate ahead of him, thanking the God he thought had long forsaken the planet. _Although I don't like the sound of "pathogen filtration." That one's new. Thought I knew every code in the book._

The gate controls lay on top of a short tower, which fortunately featured a ladder. Barney stepped from the boat and on to the lowest rung, shaking some of the water from his body. A muffled bang drew his attention a few more steps up. Another part of the hunter chopper vacated the chassis in a flaming ruin.

Barney pulled himself atop the tower and grabbed the crank. With a groan it began to turn, the wheel quickly growing slick from the water on Barney's gloves and wrists. His hands slid against the metal, forcing him to grit his teeth and get a good grip. _Come on…_

The gate rose slowly. Something else fell off the hunter chopper. When next Barney looked up, the green blasts now emerged from a far closer source. _Damn it, damn it, damn it…_

The crank stuck, and the gate clicked in place. Barney whooped and slid back down the ladder, landing in the sucking mud. He boarded the airboat again, this time feeling for the pistol at his belt. _Here's hoping it doesn't jam if I use it._ They were supposed to be water-proofed, but that didn't mean mud-proofed.

The hum of the hunter chopper gun grew close. It let loose with another spray of pulse rounds, and Barney could hear the muffled splashes from well behind him. He heard a familiar raspy scream echo from behind him.

"Come on…" Part of a dock had fallen in half, leaving something close to a ramp. Barney screamed as he jumped it, the airboat motor screaming as the vehicle tore through the air. It landed with a spine-crunching crash, making Barney swear under his breath. He threw himself from the boat and towards the sign that said "Observation," following the small concrete pathway to where the gate controls lay.

Everything grew cold all of a sudden. What light did grace the lake faded. Barney froze, his entire body shivering, his chest tightening in a fresh onslaught of fear. He looked up, as his caveman ancestors likely did when first confronting the unknown when it came from the sky. A UFO, a goddamned UFO, green and purple, lights flickering at its edge, its lower half rotating continuously.

"Exogen breach detected. Filtration systems not at full readiness. Code: Shield. Delay. Sacrifice. Innoculate."

A lance of green erupted from the UFO, skewering the (now puny) hunter chopper. The helicopter burst in half, its rotor flying some way past the dam gate and into the distant waters below, while its chassis plummeted into the lake proper, ploughing into the shallows and coming to a smoking halt.

Barney stared open-mouthed at the looming monstrosity above him, a mix of scrotum-deflating fear and a strange sense of vindication permeating his being. _And they called me crazy…_

A deep bellowing cry echoed across the lake. Barney came to his senses and bolted for the distant observation platform – a small panel in a booth overlooking the lake. The switch for the main gate didn't work – Barney flicked it back and forth uselessly – but the secondary gate switch opened as soon as he wrenched the switch back towards him. Above, the UFO thrummed ominously.

Barney did not know if he was making himself more visible by sprinting, but he did not care. Black Mesa East had fighters, vortigaunts, beer – everything he needed to make the UFO not matter anymore. He checked the backpack once more as he slid into the airboat's seat, then turned on the engine. Something chittered from below him.

"Go!" Barney screamed to no one in particular, and the airboat surged forward, off the cliff and into the water. It landed with a resounding crash. The chittering turned into an alien scream, and something green whizzed over his shoulder. Barney did not look back. He simply swerved back and forth, trying to remember his Active Shooter training from way back when, before Black Mesa even. _Zig-zag! Zig-zag!_

The gates drew closer with every passing moment. A series of logs formed a loose ramp for him to make the jump in. Barney gunned it forward, more flashes of green flying overhead. One connected with the top of the dam gate and left a smoking hold. Barney screamed and lowered his head, readying himself for the gut-wrenching drop.

The airboat cleared through the opened gate, a single plasma(?) blast following it and flying off into the horizon. For a moment, Barney hung, weightless, hands only loosely gripping the steering. One instinctively moved back to steady the backpack. Then gravity reasserted its hold, and Barney plummeted, his scream shattering the still beneath the dam.

The airboat hit the tranquil waters with ear-splitting force, its skid momentarily dipping fully below the water at the impact. Part of the frame came loose and fell into the frothing waters. Barney heard his entire body crack as the laws of physics told him what a naughty boy he had been, and his hand momentarily pressed hard into the softness of the backpack's contents.

Then the airboat bounced up, off the water, and came to a rough halt. Barney sobbed once without realizing it, out of relief more than anything, only to look up. The UFO remained. Something else cleared the top of the dam, glimmering in the early morning light.

Barney watched it, transfixed. A white disc, featureless, humming loudly as it approached. _The UFO had a baby._ Barney, wincing from the mild pain in his back and joints, felt for his pistol, but it was half-hearted. _I made it home. I won. You're not a part of this. Go away!_

The disc stopped just above the water, sending ripples across it from whatever means it used to transport itself. It looked serene. Almost beautiful. Then naturally, something terrible happened.

The disc span itself vertically before splitting open. Two guns protruded from its formerly smooth surface, yellow eyes glared out. Spiky black ridges jutted from its rear, where a lengthy spiked tail wove in place. It gave a metallic growl. Barney, still just barely able to care, simply wrapped his arm around the backpack and slid with it into the water.

A blast of orange heat followed, making the water ripple. Barney sunk to the bottom without even trying, his soaked clothing dragging him down. Above, distorted by the shifting water, the strange disc returned to its beautiful state. Airboat parts floated away, revealing its passage to where Barney lay against the lakebed, throat beginning to burn as he held his breath. This time it flipped itself to face straight down, guns pointed at his chest. _Well. Here's hoping the water blocks it._ Barely cognizant, Barney lifted a single middle finger at the apparition above him. The alien, clicked, whirred…

…and exploded in emerald light.

Barney started, bubbles streaming from his nose. The alien staggered and twitched in the air, twisting back into its mobile shape, only to be slammed by green light once again. This time, glowing yellow cracks materialized all over its surface. Barney, guessing what was about to happen, thought better about surfacing, and instead kicked himself back down, waiting. The third bolt came, and the alien shattered, making the water hiss as hot fragmentation came barreling down around Barney.

Barney, lungs crying out for air, launched himself for the surface. He came up with a strangled yelp, arms feeling for the backpack. There, singed, partially ripped open, a purple arm dipping into the water! Barney grabbed it, calling for help. Ahead, at water's edge, a man waved, flanked by two vortigaunts.

"Holy shit! Barney? Is that you?"

"The Barney Calhoun! This is no time for such submerged shenanigans." The vortigaunt reached out. Barney gripped the alien with his free hand and almost yelped again as it pulled him up with surprising strength. The man fished the backpack out with a billhook, whistling as he pulled it up.

"Jackpot."

The UFO above let out a massive scream of a siren. Barney looked up just in time to see it beam something down, less than ten feet from them. The air shimmered with heat.

"Go!" called out the vortigaunt, thrusting Barney backwards. "Go to the Eli Vance! We will handle the interloper!"

One of the purple aliens, bug eyes popping, fell to the grounds at impressive speeds, only to be immediately set pinwheeling by a blast of electricity. Barney, knowing when he was outmatched, grabbed the backpack, hoisting what was left of it over his shoulder. His fellow human, clearly feeling the same way, led him onward.

"Up here! To the airlock!"

Yet no sooner had they stepped forward, the air shimmered again. A purple spotlight fell where they intended to go, and something whistled from on high.

"Get down!"

Something far, far bigger than the E.T. they had just sent down hit the Earth. It reared up, green armor glistening in the heat, slamming a fist against its chest and roaring.

A bolt of electricity hit its chest. It grunted and readied a weapon bigger than Barney was.

Lances of green passed over Barney's head, and the vortigaunts ducked, chanting in their weird language. Out of sight, something else hit the ground. _They're just gonna keep airdropping things on us!_ Barney felt for his pistol.

The big fucker stopped short. The vortigaunts had ducked around the silos, and more fighting could be heard from around the corner. It paused momentarily, thinking, and then pulled something small and cylindrical from its belt. It pulled the pin free. The grenade began to beep.

Barney aimed once and fired at the alien's outstretched arm. For a moment, the alien hung still, grunting in surprise as the grenade fell from its grip. Then it burst into green, shards of armor and chunks of steaming flesh flying. Barney gagged at the smell.

"Jesus, Calhoun." The other guy pulled him up, also choking, pointing to the airlock. "There, we can get the rest of the vorts. Let's-"

The air cracked again. A vortigaunt screamed a death rattle – Barney knew the sound. Something big roared into the night. As the UFO shrieked another siren, however, the air stilled. Clouds gathered high above, in the direction of City 17.

"Filtration systems active. Airwatch confirms presence of exogen breach. Filtration commencing. Converge. Isolate. Diagnose."

A plume of light erupted far off in the distance, light blue and luminous. The UFO similarly glowed blue, the light turning into the entire craft into a light azure. Then…

The UFO tilted, suddenly struck by tremendous force just off its center. Green and orange flames licked its suddenly broken surface, sending debris crashing to the earth. Then, smoking, with all the inevitability of a tree cut in half, it began to list and fall, out of sight, into the distance. Seconds later, a massive crash, making Barney's heart stutter for a moment. Then, peace.

"Converge. Isolate. Diagnose. XCOM inbound."

Something red and angry rounded the corner. It looked like the alien Barney had just wasted, only larger. A single clawed glove, glistening green, adorned its right hand. It pounded its chest and howled at Barney, its eyes alive with hate. But from behind, footsteps.

"Contact! Light it up!"

The beast charged, and Barney lifted his gun. The pistol jumped in his hands while, from behind, the staff of Black Mesa East reminded these aliens, just for a moment, who the real masters of the planet were.

Green sprayed from the beast as it careened forward, but even as it cried out and slumped, the gunfire did not slow its momentum. Barney jumped to the side as the massive corpse skidded past, likely thoroughly invalidating whatever efforts Barney had gone to just to bring the fucking E.T. corpse to Black Mesa East. _We're not exactly short on bodies now, are we?_

Barney stood there, panting. The body smoked and bled. But all was silent. All was still. Something thudded against Barney's back.

"Thought you said everything would be okay?" asked Eli Vance, grinning up at Barney, face drawn but warm. He clapped Barney on the shoulder again, then pulled his hand back, frowning at the blood. "You're hurt … and that wound isn't clean."

"We should get him to the decontamination shower," said a woman in a large white sweater. _Mossman._ She spared Barney only a quick calculating glance, any possible concern masked by her obvious interest in the alien body. She looked up at the smoke-laden sky "And … I think we should get out from the open."

"Yes," replied Eli, a little distracted. He frowned at Barney. "Good. It's good to see you're all right. Did the vortigaunts…?"

Barney shook his head. Eli clucked his tongue.

"I suppose that confirms their suspicions. I think I've lived through enough alien invasions for a lifetime, don't you?" He put his arm around Barney and let Barney put his arm around Eli. The scientist bore Barney's weight surprisingly well.

Dr. Mossman waved at the assembled Resistance troops. "Come on! Grab the bodies. Dr. Vahlen won't want to be kept waiting. Hurry up! They were right at our doorstep, the Combine are almost certainly going to do a sweep!"

Eli hoisted Barney up, trying to keep him awake. "Come on. Let's get that wound looked to, some coffee in you, and then you can tell us all about what you've seen."

"I'm gonna need a little something extra in that coffee, doc," rasped Barney, looking up at Eli's face. Eli stopped, looking contemplative.

"Yes. Me too."


	10. Questionable Ethics

Wallace surveyed the wreckage from the viewscreen, his pale finger tapping it periodically to zoom in on some glowing piece of rubble. Much of the craft's ruin remained obscured by the truly terrific amount of smoke, but here on the edges, some of the hull lay steaming in a still glade, flung from the ship by incredible force.

Wallace could not recall ever activating the Citadel's suppression configuration before now. Put simply, there was a complete lack of realistic targets. The Citadel, well, any Citadel, could theoretically target any ground or air "obstruction" within 8000 kilometers. Unleashing that kind of power, however, made no sense. Resistance towns and buildings usually fell within mortar range or could be neutralized by air support, and xenian wildlife could be cleared out by any Overwatch team worth its salt. _But … a UFO…?_

The "filtration" system, as the dispatch referred to it, must have been designed for occasions like this. Their Benefactors surely had encountered extra-planetary invaders during their numerous extra-dimensional conquests. Equipping such a device to the Citadel as an intimidation tactic did not make sense either, given that merely shifting to the configuration took an inordinate amount of power. _If only I could ask them._ But they never took kindly to questions. They were the ones who asked the questions.

"Overwatch – monitor and suppress all movement around impact site." Wallace licked his lips, thinking. "Divert the XCOM unit, for the moment. Keep them on standby."

"First order confirmed. Second order requires advisory oversight. Apply?"

Wallace's breath came out hoarse as he nodded. "Apply."

He turned on his heel and made, for the second time in a week, for the elevator. He did not even need to tap the button to head down. It activated for him. _That's typically not a good sign._ Wallace gulped in the suddenly cool air. His stomach lurched as the elevator jerked into life, sending him spiraling into the dark blue depths of the Citadel's guts.

The doors opened, and the cold air became uncomfortably warm in a surge of pressure. The smell went from cold metal to the inside of a gecko's cage – arid and alien. Wallace entered the large still chamber with sweat clinging to the insides of his clothes. He adjusted the neck of his jumper with a grimace, trying to avert the urge to wring his hands. Up above, a crack of light opened between the sliding doors. They came apart with a whine of metal on metal.

Three pods clanked from the aperture high above. The smell grew a little stronger. Wallace shut his eyes, his breathing coming faster now. _Three. Three?_ Until now, his audiences had only ever been one. Probably the same one, if he had any guess, although there was no way of telling. Now, three pods dropped down the railing, clanking loudly, life stirring within them. All three came to a halt, one before him, one to his left, and one to his right. The middle hissed as the pressure released, and something bulbous surged from within.

A question, red and hungry, hung heavy in the air. The Benefactor turned its featureless face to Wallace, the rest of its body still ensconced safely within the metal egg it lived within. It had no eyes, but still it saw him. It had no nose, but it still smelled him. It had no ears, but it still heard him.

 _But the sense of taste remains intact, whole and unmodified._ Wallace could not say whether the idea came from himself or the beast that twitched and stirred within the metal pod. His features twisted into a smile borne more of anxiety than an effort to remain polite. The translucent tongue snaked out momentarily from within the Benefactor. It probed once, twice, at the air before it, as if stabbing with a finger to make a point. The question grew heavier.

"If we are to assault this UFO crash site and make off with its personnel and materiel, I would prefer to use a team with a reasonable chance of success," replied Wallace, secure in the fact that this response, at least, was a wholly genuine one. "We cannot afford to obliterate any more of the craft than we already have, so striders and air support are not an option. This will require the work of the Transhuman Arm of the Overwatch, and the Transhuman Arm alone. No one else has the required deftness of touch."

The Benefactor rumbled. Wallace could not help but realize, unpleasantly, it sounded like the rumbling of a human stomach. The question twisted and veered, becoming more specific.

"Yes, we were prepping a team of Overwatch, but given our current battle data, it would be cost-ineffective to swarm the site with several dozen troops," replied Wallace. "The scanners report that there is still movement. Ground forces will contain the area and restrict reinforcements and escape. All I ask is for one day to complete the necessary surgery for one of our soldiers – a surgery that will roughly quintuple its combat effectiveness."

Amusement. Mild and mocking indignation. The Benefactor rumbled again, feigning affront at Wallace's "extracurriculars."

"The aliens have afforded us an opportunity to bypass some of the human body's modification limits," confessed Wallace. He wiped his brow quickly before continuing. "It has been tentatively named Meld. It affords a greater connectivity between flesh and machine. With it, our Elites could be improved. I intend for this UFO to be our first MEC trooper's proving ground." _The firepower of an armored vehicle, but only slightly larger than an Overwatch soldier._

 _And above all, wholly a human innovation. The framework is yours and the aliens, yes, but the creativity stems from us. Do you realize this? Do you realize what you will throw away if you take our humanity in whole?_

The Benefactor chortled. Images hung in the air like smoke, almost indiscernible but still making Wallace's eyes water. The Benefactors possessed a familiarity with such concepts. Images of cyborg troopers of all stripes and profiles, quintiped, tripod, and bipedal, wormed their way into Wallace's minds. _When all the universes are laid bare before you, it seems the only originality to be found is in the combination of derivative tripe._ Wallace and Dr. Tygan trod on well-worn ground. The Benefactors understood Wallace's intentions. They accepted the decision.

But mostly because they didn't care.

The pod to Wallace's left hissed as it cracked open. The Benefactor gazed at him levelly. It did not flick its tongue out. It did not need to. Wallace flinched as he realized he had never spoken to this one before; how he knew this, he had no idea. But he was as certain about this as he was certain about the Suppression Field's total effect on human birthrate. This Benefactor did not express amusement. It snuffed once, entire body heaving. _Impatience._

"My contact at Black Mesa East informs me that they are about to enter the final testing stages of their local teleporter," replied Wallace, bracing himself for the worst. "If you want that technology functional and intact, you will need to wait just a little longer. Given the UFO's proximity to Black Mesa East, there will likely be a delay as they cease all activity in order to give us the impression of all being well."

The Benefactor gave a low roar, making the fellow in the center turn, not in surprise, simply in acknowledgment of its accusation. The center Benefactor looked back to Wallace, tongue sliding out again, like a parent finger wagging its child. _Naughty, naughty._

"My concern lies with the entirety of the human race, not a small band of desperate renegades!" Wallace's voice cracked at the last syllable. Despite himself, he found that he had taken a step forward. "This technology, if functional, can be leveraged to increase the efficiency of the Universal Union by a sizable margin. If you _insist_ on killing the golden goose, I will not have you hold me, or by extension humanity, responsible. These scientists will not willingly work for us – I even have my doubts about our good mole of a doctor – and the only way to guarantee the quality of this product is to allow it to be nurtured within the bounds of their brilliance and ignorance. I urge patience, my friend, not for the good of this Resistance, but for the Universal Union."

The Benefactor chortled, surprised. It lay back, suddenly still and content, and the pod closed. Now, as Wallace expected, the Benefactor on the right to emerge. This one practically waved its tongue at Wallace before dumping its expectation before him, like a box full of belt buckles.

The specimens Wallace had brought them? Servants, brainwashed and heavily altered. They needed something else. A purple image materialized in the thick air; a lanky figure in a red robe, four skinny arms held aloft, an ornate mask adorning its face. _Overseer. Warlord. Ethereal._ The Benefactor seemed to not to itself, as if in anticipation. _It … sees this thing as a peer. In a fashion._

The center Benefactor chortled. It knew live specimens were not yet an option, but it wanted one of these alive regardless. Oh, the wonderful things it could tell them. The point of origin of the invaders, where more of them might live. Troop numbers and deployments. The full extent of their own intel on the Universal Union…

They still did not see these things as a threat, it seemed. If anything, Wallace sensed amusement. _These aliens,_ they seemed to say, _something new. What fun!_

 _They see this place as a backwater. This whole planet. My home. Our species._ Wallace tried to slow his breathing. Something raw and hot built up deep in his chest. He forced it back down.

The Benefactors retreated into their pods. The pods ascended without so much as a goodbye; by their simple absence, he was dismissed. He could continue onward as he liked, until further notice.

Wallace beat a hasty retreat back to the elevator, not caring if they could hear his hurried footsteps. _They know I'm terrified of them. It doesn't matter._ The elevator jerked its way upward, and Wallace heaved once, only barely stopping the vomit from coming up. _How many of them are back there? Will there come a day when they call me into the depths and nine of them surround me, each with their own questions … their own hungers…_

The elevator stopped on the lab floor. He stepped out of it, the fear congealing to fury. Combine soldiers lay in various states of undress on tables, strapped into memory replacement machines on the walls. At the forefront of the room, presided over by the tall form of Dr. Tygan, lay Scythe 2, pale flesh burned and ragged in places, gaunt but unblemished in others. Its face remained entirely free of hair or memorable features. _Mankind, reduced to its basest of denominators. Brought back to factory zero and reprogrammed._

Dr. Tygan looked up, forehead wrinkling a little.

"Dr. Breen-"

"Where is he?"

The wrinkles deepened. Dr. Tygan jerked his clipboard behind him, to a door just beyond.

"He still refuses to work?"

Dr. Tygan nodded and cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid so."

Wallace nodded, mostly to himself. He turned, raking his hand across his face, both palm and forehead lubricated by sweat.

"Without his assistance, would this unit be combat ready by tomorrow?"

"This unit is technically combat ready now, Dr. Breen." Dr. Tygan clicked his tongue. "I could integrate him into the suit. He would walk into battle into it. He may yet do some damage. But mobility is hampered. Targeting systems are nonoptimal. I need someone better accustomed to applying Combine servos and targeting systems."

Wallace sucked in a whistling breath through his teeth. He turned to Dr. Tygan one more time, nodded, and brushed past the man with a fire burning in his belly. The door opened at his approach. A square room, the walls festooned with glistening soldier parts, a storage closet for only the grizzliest of engineering, greeted him. A small man in a blue jacket, features weathered and sinking with age, posture slightly bowed, stared up at the parts. He turned at Wallace's approach. His features, softened from time, immediately hardened into something intractable. He did not speak. He only folded his arms. Wallace scowled, baring his teeth.

"I have tolerated your rebellion for too long, Dr. Shen. It ends today." The doctor smirked.

"Where are your honeyed words now, Wallace?" asked the doctor, his soft voice shaking with amusement. "Your talk of serving mankind? Or, is it too hard to maintain that pretension as we stand here, in this mechanical butcher's shop?"

Wallace jabbed a finger forward, stepping right inside Shen's comfort zone. The man did not budge.

"It is clear you will not listen to reason, but I will ask you one more time: supply your expertise to the Universal Union, for the good of mankind. Improve that soldier. Do what is best for humanity."

Dr. Shen mockingly brought a thumb and forefinger to his chin. He gave it an exaggerated stroke.

"No."

"Very well." Wallace motioned for him to follow. He then noted a distinct lack of footsteps behind him. "Raymond, that is simply being childish. Will you come of your own accord, or hoisted by the strong arms of the Transhuman Overwatch?"

Shen huffed once and then walked, slowly, up to behind Wallace. The two of them proceeded, slowly, past Dr. Tygan, who made a point of paying them no mind in favor of hooking up Scythe 2's cranium with another set of wires. As they reached the elevator, an unpleasant whirring sound filled the lab. It became worse when it muffled, coupled with the sound of flesh tearing. _Don't look. He does only what he has to._

"Who was that soldier?" asked Shen, folding his arms. "You don't know, do you? You take away names, you take away genitals, you take away daydreaming … what is left? Could you call it human?"

"I knew that one's name," replied Wallace softly, staring at a wall. _The features entirely stripped away. I would have no way of knowing if I hadn't been there._ Wallace shook his head. "Do not think I am so detached from all of this, Dr. Shen. And do not pretend you are so invulnerable."

"Are you going to kill me, Wallace?" asked Dr. Shen, suddenly smiling, his yellowed teeth revealed as his lips pulled back in a wide smile. He stretched his arms wide. "By all means … just … memento mori."

Wallace shrugged. "Under the Combine, that need no longer hold true."

"If that soldier is what living forever looks like, Wallace, I want no part of it."

The elevator stopped. Wallace gestured for Shen to leave, which he did, scowling at Wallace's office.

"Busts of your own head. Why am I not surprised?" Shen scuffed his feet on the red carpet. "There are people down there living without functioning toilets. Starving to death. Being beaten without warning. And you're living up here with a rug?"

"We each of us have our station, Doctor. Our purpose." Wallace brushed past him and took up position at his desk. He steepled his fingers and stared at Doctor Shen. _Will he break? If not…_

Activating the "filtration" system on the Citadel was not something done lightly. Until today, it was not done at all. But, since the guns and mechanisms were already in place, it became a simple matter of taking advantage of an already existing situation. _If he does not break … well. Whatever research they might have had pales in comparison to what is happening at Black Mesa East. And since Dr. Mossman was kind enough to tell me they've already figured out they have a mole … there's really no harm._

"Overwatch, designate sector for ground filtration: White Forest." Dr. Shen jumped, just barely. But Wallace saw it. He pretended not to.

"Confirmed, time to completion: two minutes. Activating filtration systems."

"White Forest," muttered Dr. Shen, doing a poor job of pretending confusion.

"Yes," replied Wallace mildly. "White Forest. Given the scale of what I have been dealing with, I almost forgot its existence. Our local Overwatch forces had to be pulled out of the Outlands to better secure the cities, and even given the relative aggression of its defenders under the command of Bradford, I judged the security of City 17 to be of higher importance." Dr. Shen's face paled.

"You know…?"

"I wish I could say goodbye to Dr. Magnusson in person," continued Wallace, privately relishing the steadily draining color in Dr. Shen's face, "but he is hardly the first Black Mesa employee to be forced out of my service without warning. And he always was a bit of an ass."

Wallace wiped his mouth, and gave Dr. Shen a hard look.

"And there's an engineer there. I forget her name. But it sounded a bit like yours."

" _This_ is how you think I will work for you?" asked Dr. Shen, loathing etched into every syllable. Wallace shrugged.

"It could be. If not, it is simply the removal of a minor security risk. Followed shortly by your own termination at the hands of our Benefactors." Wallace lifted his hands. "This is not ideal, you understand, but I am under considerable pressure and time constraints. The Resistance will be permitted to continue its research into teleportation for the time being, but its more militant elements, in light of this invasion, must be … sterilized."

Dr. Shen's mouth became a thin hard line. Then, slowly, it began to tremble.

"Attention agencies: ground filtration systems activating. Designated sector: containment zone White Forest Base. Sterilization commencing in thirty seconds."

Wallace said nothing. He did not smile. He did not feel. He just watched this man, this old man, slowly collapse under a growing weight of guilt and panic.

"Sterilization commencing in fifteen seconds."

Wallace raised his eyebrows. Without warning, Dr. Shen screamed.

"Stop! Stop it! I'll do it!" He lurched forward, planting his palms on Wallace's desk, making the whole thing shake.

"Overwatch: cease all existing filtration commands."

"Confirmed. Reverting to standby."

Dr. Shen stared down at Wallace, breathing heavily, his breath catching once in a mild sob.

"I hate you…"

"I understand." Wallace smiled. "That's why you will be working under Dr. Tygan. Do as he says. No funny business. If we find that you have been sabotaging or-"

"I get it," replied Dr. Shen, straightening. "Fine. Just … fine."

"I'll take you to your new place of work, then." Wallace rose, only for the computer behind him to issue a high-pitched beep. "A second, please."

The normally blue monitor flashed red twice as Wallace approached it, making his heart skip a beat. _More alien activity?_ He hit the buttons, opening the bulletin. His eyes widened at what he saw. _Well, yes … but not the aliens I was thinking of._

An Overwatch bulletin. One of _his_ leavings, deposited in the Outlands but retrieved by Overwatch. Only, they had been hit shortly afterward by Resistance. _A hunter patrol wiped out as well._

He looked down at the name. It meant little. But it still stirred a little hatred in his heart. _The Containment Unit only made things worse. And now the Resistance has a bona fide soldier, it seems. I wonder how much he knows?_

It made part of him regret not pulling the trigger on White Forest. Still, he needed Shen more than he feared this Shephard and what he knew, which was likely little.

But there was something else.

 **G.F. Status: Contracted**

"Because I need to worry about that, on top of everything else…" Wallace breathed. He shut off the bulletin. That little renegade's operation was a Benefactor concern. They would see the bulletin. If it was something he needed to keep track of, they would let him know. _Besides, how much can one rogue physicist do, given what the odds are?_

Indeed, that feeling only grew as he watched his two doctors work, Shen sullenly but compliantly, Dr. Tygan with a curious energy that came off as intense but somehow laconic. Hours later, he straightened and wiped his brow, looking down at the mess of cables, metal, and flesh.

Dr. Tygan plugged one last cable into Scythe 2's forehead. The meld ran fast and free. Dr. Shen looked away, but Wallace stepped forward, placing a hand on Scythe 2's arm. The soldier's synthetic eye opened, glowing with amber.

"You will be a god among men."


	11. Extraterrestrial Combat

Eyes opened without muscles to force them or neurons to call them. A screen flickered to life, displaying reality through layers of … she didn't know how many filters, anymore. He called to his limbs and could no longer tell if they remained attached. Instead, the screen flickered once, and audio crackled through.

"Testing audio feed." _His_ voice. The Administrator. He she he could remember that well enough. The screen flickered again. "Visual feed is active. Activating servomotors."

Something whirred to life on his her his back. Her spine surged to life, heating as if exposed to flame. If his her his mouth still belonged to him, he would have screamed, but the jaw remained obediently clamped. Pain ripped through what was left of the body's nerves, swift and electric. Great metallic fingers twitched as they made their first tentative connection with his her his ravaged brain and recognized the instructions. Somewhere deep inside, a single word burned its way to the forefront.

 _Golem._

But it lacked both context and enough of a mind to dwell on its meaning. Instead it lurched forward, found no footing, and fell back into the abyss. Scythe 2 awoke fully and remembered its purpose as a soldier.

 _Degraded musculature detected. Additional wetware detected. New directives found._ Scythe 2's knees folded as something gently lowered the soldier to the floor. He took his first few steps without hesitation or thought, the heavy new limbs already bearing a programmed familiarity. Deep inside, something wept at yet more flesh lost, more humanity cut away and cast aside, from the directives shone forth, burning like Albuquerque after the Seven Hour War.

 _Active pathogens confirmed. Perform sector sweep. Debride and cauterize. Amputate and expunge._

A large weapon lay on the table. _Gauss cannon._ The weeping deep inside turned to recognition … and outrage. But it found no purchase on a mind that relied on wires to dictate its actions. Monstrous three fingered arms reached out and clasped the weapon in its arms. Empty sockets looked through implants looked through a metallic visor at the tall dark-skinned man who stood before them, eyes glistening. Yet when he spoke, the tone remained calm and professional. Scythe 2 knew to listen.

"You are the first subject of our MEC procedure," said the doctor, staring into where Scythe 2's eyes once had been. "The invader's energy weapon capabilities presently overpower our ability to defend our infantry from them. You are to be our solution. A dropship waits for you in Hangar A-64." The doctor glanced over to where Scythe 2 once hanged like a slab of meat. He gave a cough, short and wet. "We will maintain an audiovisual feed. You will be the first one in to the UFO wreckage. Do you understand?"

"Directives are clear." Indeed, Scythe 2's directives had already been burned into his her his mind. The doctor's words were only so much repetition – pointless. Yet the doctor had felt the need to ask anyway, to check up on his patient.

Scythe 2 understood. It was only practical. Their Benefactors would approve.

"The Administrator will be on the line. Humanity's future may ride on the success of our MEC troopers." The doctor gritted his brilliant white teeth. "You … you will do fine. Take no risks. We want to see how this armor stands up to fire, but I – we do not wish to lose our investment. Understood?"

"Directive confirmed." That was Scythe 2's voice that boomed forth from inside the chest plate, but the vocal cords stretched and contracted without any brain to tell it to do so. Scythe 2 could pinpoint the exact location of the brain responsible for speech – but the soldier had no voluntary control over it. _Speak when spoken to. Report to squadmates all mission parameters and battlefield conditions._ The doctor seemed to be looking for conversation where there could be none. _The mission awaits._

"I've kept you long enough," said the doctor. He waved from behind him, and Scythe 2's scanners detected movement. An older man, bald, his steps labored but steady, his weathered face red from exhaustion. Liquid ran freely from the eyes behind his glasses when he looked up to Scythe 2's faceplate, but he did not say anything. He merely stood there, lip trembling. He mouthed something at Scythe 2, but lip-reading had not been burned into the soldier's brain. The doctor gripped the other man's shoulder with one hand, while the other gestured to the double doors to their right. _The elevator._ Scythe 2 proceeded forward without a backward glance, each step a small thunderclap.

The elevator doors slid open and Scythe 2 stepped inside, weapon at the ready, motion scanners active. Scythe 2 could feel the blood (what was left of it) pulsing through her his her veins, the wires running through or in place of nerves coursing with information and sensation, and above all else, the power inside the suit and the weapon she bore. The soldier had once been an elite – one of the Transhuman Overwatch's finest. Now, he was something more – a colossus tethered by bonds of metal, yes, but also a warrior that would bring fear to the Universal Union's enemies; a terror on the battlefield that others would be unable to reckon with.

Some program deep in Scythe 2's mind approved of these notions. A rush of pleasure went shooting down Scythe 2's spine, making the near-corpse inside the suit twitch with artificial glee. _Yes. We will cauterize. We will sterilize. We will amputate. We will cut and crush and burn until the world is clean and free._

Clean … the program approved of that. Free? A useless notion. Even their Benefactors were tied in some way to powers beyond them. No one was free. Obligation ended at the grave, and even then, the Universal Union had a few things to say about _that_.

The elevator doors opened. One dropship already blared at the ready, a container gripped in its suckers. Another dropship sounded off to its left, its limbs empty. The directive presented itself. _Prepare for skydrop._ A memory resurfaced but found no purchase, one of falling far and … free. Somewhere in a hot place, filled with sand, a parachute strapped to his her his back. But it was the memory of a human, weak and unimproved, and only had the fleeting relevance of a dream. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived, and Scythe 2 strode towards the hovering dropship without apprehension or nostalgia.

The dropship reached out with its rear legs. Suckers gripped Scythe 2 securely about the shoulders and held them, finding purchase in special slots made in the armor. Scythe 2's limbs folded inwards into a rough cuboid shape, the truncated limbs underneath the armor retracting towards the husk of his her his torso. _Tactical assessment – armor is thickest at the center, where the soldier's body is located. Pathogens and anticitizens would have a better chance disabling the unit by targeting the limbs._ Scythe 2's pleasure center approved of that, made a note of it. Perhaps in the future, Scythe 2 would make additional combat notes.

The dropship lifted off, the cube barely swaying as the crablike synth warbled and pushed forward through the air. The other dropship took off behind it, the container secure in its grip. Scythe 2, unable to see anything through its main visual feed, swapped to one of the lower cameras. Below, City 17 glowed brightly in the dark of the night, its streets alive with the motion of synths, citizens, and Civil Protection. The Citadel quickly disappeared from behind them.

The wind howled about Scythe 2 as the dropship approached maximum speed. It whooped twice as it reached cruising speed, its brother behind it following suit. The dark city streets below changed to the still waters of City 17's outlying canals, occasionally shifting to the browns and greens of the polluted wasteland that ringed the city like crusted blood at the site of an infected wound.

Something in Scythe 2 chirped at that simile. _Somewhere deep inside, something strays from What Is Allowed._ But the thought contagion remained well within standard deviation. It was the twitch of a dying animal – the final loosening of the bowels as life fled the body. Scythe 2 knew its purpose. It knew its mission. Whatever Scythe 2 had once been would play no role in what was to come. _Cauterize and expunge._

"Approaching target area." The Administrator's voice came in loud and clear. His face appeared in the top right of Scythe 2's visual feed, his face worn and eyes a little pink. He smiled at Scythe 2 – or at least, at the camera. "I see our MEC trooper is ready. Excellent. I have assured our Benefactors of your potential, Scythe 2, especially given the promise you have already displayed. I trust you are ready?"

Scythe 2 had been programmed for rhetorical questions. Everyone who served guard duty for the Administrator had. Scythe 2 remained silent. Another face appeared in the top right – the old man in the glasses, the one who wept while keeping silent.

"The MEC's combat capabilities might still fall short of the destructive potential of, say, a strider," said the old man, his voice now businesslike and short, "and sh – it might lack the maneuverability of a hunter. However, this is the most powerful human-based land asset currently available to the Universal Union, and at a significantly reduced cost. The only limiting factor is MELD."

"Yes." The Administrator smiled, teeth flashing. "Scythe 2, your primary objective remains to clear the crash site. Your secondary objective is to, if you can, secure additional canisters of the MELD substance. We need it both for study and for the development of additional heavy weapons platforms. So watch your fire down there, and scan for errant energy signatures."

"Understood." Scythe 2 readied itself. The drop site approached.

"A squad of elites will back you up at the crash site," continued the Administrator. "They are expendable. We would prefer you remained intact. Prioritize accordingly."

"Mission parameters set. Directive acknowledged."

"The perimeter has been secured by our Outland patrols," said the Administrator, absentmindedly scratching the side of his neck. "They have confirmed that nothing has left the crash site, but that there is still definite movement within the wreckage. Proceed with caution. Debride and cauterize. Preserve as much of the craft as possible."

"Debride and cauterize."

"This is to be the first mission of the Extraterrestrial Combat Arm of the Transhuman Overwatch," finished the Administrator, staring at Scythe 2 with a strange intensity. "More is riding on it than just you or my fate. I'll just leave it at that."

"We will continue to provide mission support," chimed in the doctor, his face completing the trifecta of mission control. "Good luck, Scythe 2."

The dropship clunked once, its free limbs shifting out of the way. Scythe 2 twitched, the legs now protruding ever so slightly from the cube of its body. The dropship hooted, and then let go.

Scythe 2 fell quickly, quickly enough to trigger some long ago remnant of being to wonder why his her his stomach did not flop. _Fool. There is no stomach any longer._ Counter thrusters ignited from Scythe 2's feet, and arms plus head jutted forth from the torso, making the soldier into a rough humanoid shape once more.

Scythe 2 hit the ground hard, sending up a plume of earth as its legs sank deep into the rotten soil. Scythe 2's knees buckled and then held, registering the impact with the earth as little more than a mild jolt. The MEC Trooper stood to her full height and surveyed his blasted surroundings.

The alien craft smoked in a small valley of its own making. Trees, leafless and dead, lay broken and burnt in its wake. Strange metal, some green, some purple, all of it superheated, sat strewn about the crash site, stripped from the ship as it struck the earth and skidded. Behind Scythe 2, the second dropship's updraft sent leaves and smoke scattering as it made its descent.

"The vessel appears mostly intact," said the doctor with a faint hint of alarm. "Given the considerable impact of the crash – not to mention the munition we aimed at it – this is either very bad or very good news."

"How so?" asked the Administrator sharply.

"If we can reclaim the crash site and begin repurposing the alien's material – as our benefactors would likely will it – then we will be able to take advantage of its impressive sturdiness," replied the doctor. The engineer grunted in reluctant assent. "Scythe 2 – can you proceed further into the crash site?"

"Scythe 2, you are cleared to proceed," urged the Administrator, leaning into the camera. "Regardless of whatever this craft is made out of, your gauss rifle should cut right through it. Just don't let it overcharge."

"Yes," said the engineer with a meaningful look at the camera. "Too many poor fools have made that mistake over the years."

Scythe 2 strode forward on legs of steel, MELD and blood flowing through his her his veins, the gauss rifle cradled surely in an unshakeable grip. Behind, the secondary fire team took up position behind bits of chest-high debris, obeying their orders to keep a steady distance. _I will be the first in. Good._ Scythe 2 could not explain the thrill in what was left of his her his chest. Some remnant of curiosity or excitement, born of an irrelevant past life, sparked deep inside and found purchase. Scythe 2 held on to it dearly. It burned like an ember, hot to the touch and fading fast.

Translucent purple barriers shone from the rear of the ship. Scythe 2 could see through, and both the energy and thermal signature were minimal. Nevertheless, the soldier halted and let its superiors discuss the plan of action.

"Air and common particulates are passing freely through the field," said the doctor, stroking his chin. "It looks to be little more than a door, if I were to hazard a guess. It bears little resemblance to the Com – to the Universal Union's own barriers."

"Treat all invader technology with caution," urged the engineer. Scythe 2 stepped forward to the nearest field, his feet nearly resting on top of the craft. _First to enter._ She reached forward with a metal hand that was not truly her own.

As the tip of his finger glanced across the membrane, the field retreated with a whirr and a snap. Scythe 2 heard a sigh of relief from one of her operators.

"Just a door, as I thought," muttered the doctor. "Scythe 2, you should proceed with extreme caution within the ship. For all we know, it may be boobytrapped."

"Scythe 2, units approaching target location." The MEC Trooper's backup made itself heard, all six elites now crouched behind debris within twenty feet of Scythe 2's location. "Overwatch established and flanking routes secure. Establishing visual link with unit."

"Your squadmates will wait for you to make first contact," said the Administrator, surreptitiously wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "Don't worry – they will move to intercept at the first sign of trouble."

Scythe 2 would have shrugged if there was anything left inside capable of caring. The soldier took his her his first step on to the alien spacecraft, the first human to ever do so. _Really? Are you sure? And is it really_ your _feet?_ Scythe 2 stopped a moment, wondering where the thought came from. A dead human, weak and forgotten. Scythe 2 approached the second glowing purple barrier, gauss rifle leveled at its center. This time, she nudged the "door" with the barrel of her gun.

"Zero contacts." Scythe 2 stepped through, his view swapping to the deep green of night vision. The door gave way to a narrow corridor, the walls adorned with purple murals. A single multi-armed statue lay in an alcove to his right, a heavily decorated mask sat at its head.

"The leadership," said the Administrator in certain terms. "Our benefactors have determined as much. Not that it would be much of a stretch…"

"Do we have any idea what these beings want?" asked the doctor.

"They came to conquer," replied the Administrator after a moment's hesitation. "But it is unclear why. Given what we know of our own universe's physics, making a journey across the stars would take a considerable amount of expertise and resources. Imperialism appears unlikely."

None of this mattered to Scythe 2. An Elite stacked up on either side of the door behind him, and he continued down the corridor, each step sending a heavy clank echoing within the ship's interior.

 **Clank. Clank. Clank.** Scythe 2 approached a blind corner to his right, the edge of a step just barely visible.

"Strange," said the engineer, "from this room, you could barely tell that there was a cr-"

A green gun barrel swung into Scythe 2's view. Something massive and angry snarled a threat in a language no one on Earth yet understood.

"Active biotics confirmed." Scythe 2 stepped aside. The green plasma blast shot past where he had just stood, smacking into one of the ship's few remaining intact walls, leaving a jagged and charred hole, which swiftly grew.

"Pathogens detected. Suppressing." Scythe 4 and 6 fired down the corridor from either side of the door behind Scythe 2, whose gauss rifle roared to life. The beast grunted as the first shot sheared through the pillar and his armor, spraying the wall with sparks and green blood. He fell backwards with a muffled yell, pounding his chest with his free hand. More yells answered his call.

"Scythe 1, confirming additional foreign pathogens at exterior of vessel. Shifting to engage." Pulse rifle fire, distant and muddied as if coming from underwater, sounded from outside the ship. Scythe 2 ignored this, charged her gauss rifle, and stormed after her wounded assailant, who rounded on the MEC Trooper without a hint of fear in his yellow piggy eyes.

The alien soldier fired once before Scythe 2 grabbed him, the blast catching the trooper in the reinforced chest. Scythe 2 felt a great heat burn and then immediately subside, the bulk of the plasma dissipated throughout the entire frame of the torso. He she he pushed the barrel of the gun straight to the bastard's forehead and released the trigger.

The gauss rifle kicked with the force of a small nuke, slightly impacting the armor at her shoulder. The alien flew backwards as its skull flew apart into jagged shards, its scream cut short into a gurgle of superheated fluids. The gauss rifle shot went through the soldier, then the wall behind him, then the wall behind that wall, then the tree stump fifty feet behind the second wall, until finally stopping at a cliff face at the edges of Scythe 2's enhanced vision, just barely visible through the fresh hole her weapon had made.

The alien soldier's massive body crashed through the now weakened wall with considerable force, making the entire purple surface give way like so much glass in an action movie. Two more alien soldiers, crouched behind what would have been cover to Scythe 2's outside compatriots, looked up in what might have been fear. It was certainly not confidence.

"Cauterize," boomed Scythe 2, charging forward, gauss rifle charging yet again. One soldier backed up, crying something out in a guttural tongue. The other adjusted something on his rifle. A blade popped out at the green barrel. He leapt forward with a scream.

Scythe 2 swept the pitiful effort aside with a flick of his own weapon, and then shoved with the barrel. The alien soldier grunted at the impact but only took a single step backwards. _Heavy._ Nevertheless, the grunt's weapon hung limply in his grip for a moment. Scythe 2 took another step forward, pointing his gun upward with his right hand, while his left slipped behind his waist and prepared a fist. Another step. The fist came forward. For a brief moment, the alien soldier's eyes widened.

 _Crunch._ The weapon flew from the invader's grip. The respirator lodged securely in what might have been its mouth smashed into pieces. Gas flew freely from the inside of the creature's suit, and the soldier did not rise when it fell to the ground, clearly choking. Scythe 2 planted a foot on its back and pushed down with his her his entire weight. She felt something snap, and the soldier's movements ceased entirely.

"Beautiful," said the Administrator, his words just barely registering over the din of combat. "Just beautiful."

"Scythe 2, you are causing too much collateral damage," warned the doctor. "We need to recover as much of the vessel as possible."

"We are!" snapped the Administrator. "Scythe Team, sterilize the entire vessel. We can worry about the dollar value of the scraps later."

"Directive confirmed." Scythe 2, gauss rifle leveled and charging, advanced on the second soldier, who now ducked behind a log outside. He popped his head out and planted the rifle barrel on the steaming wood. _Targeting systems suggest 60% chance to hit._ Scythe 2 took the shot.

The gauss rifle reported once, but the shot went slightly wide, slicing through the log to the left of where the soldier knelt. The alien uttered what might have been a belch, might have been a laugh, and returned fire, squeezing off three quick shots.

The first two struck true. Scythe 2 buckled at the first as it struck her chest plate, melting off the first layer of ablative material in an orange heap. The second nailed him in the right shoulder. Something sparked and snapped, and her targeting systems shaved several points of her hit percentage accordingly.

"Moderate servomotor damage detected. Requesting fire support in my zone."

"Confirmed. Scythe 3 is in position to flank."

Pulse fire erupted from smoking brush somewhere behind the alien. He staggered forward, fresh chest wounds popping out from the front of his armor and spraying the log with a fresh coat of green. He nevertheless turned defiantly towards his attacker and began discharging plasma blasts into the treeline.

Scythe 2 barreled forward like a rugby player in a grudge match, uninjured shoulder first. The log burst apart as she tore through it and tackled the alien, who screamed in pain as the massive MEC Trooper essentially fell on top of him.

The two of them rolled once in a flurry of tangled limbs, but the outcome was never in doubt. Scythe 2 stood atop the alien, gauss rifle charging, the barrel pointed squarely at the breathing apparatus on the soldier's face. The alien stared her down with its piggy yellow eyes, no trace of fear evident, as if daring Scythe 2 to release the trigger.

But the MEC Trooper did not care. The gauss rifle shuddered once and sent a bolt of metal deep into the earth's core, scattering brain and bone in its wake. Scythe 2 stood up straight in a quieter world, a gentler world, her compatriots reporting their status.

"Scythe 6 down, no life signs detected. Requesting reserve activation."

"Scythe 5 – minor burn injuries to right hand and lower torso."

"Scythe 2, no injuries. Site has been sterilized. Requesting directive."

Only one casualty. Scythe 2 would have nodded, if it were still able. An efficient operation. The MEC Trooper turned to the vessel and prepared to complete her sweep … only for a flurry of motion to erupt from her right.

Not a pathogen. Not Overwatch. Two humans – one male, one female. Probable anticitizens.

Scythe 2's trigger finger twitched, but there was no official directive to engage human targets. Something deep inside made a noise like the whistle of a tea kettle, but no one was listening. _You saw nothing you saw nothing you saw-_

"Scythe 2, motion detected at edge of perimeter. Probable anticitizens." Scythe 2's words came unbidden, spoken from the vocoder buried somewhere in what was left of her chest. The directive bid the words spring from her, so they did. The whistling grew louder.

"How did they get inside the perimeter?" barked the Administrator, eyes widening. "Scythe 2, pursue them – get us a visual."

Scythe 2 bounded forward on long legs that would never tire and never slow. Saline solution ran in his her his veins – meaning she was months from needing additional nutrition. The anticitizens had neither luxury. While branches and bush broke and gave way in her passage, the anticitizens fumbled and fell, grunting and gasping.

 _One man. One woman._ The man fell, his ankle catching on some glinting piece of metal, slicing partway through his jeans and drawing blood. He fell with a cry. The woman glanced back, hesitated, then darted towards her fallen companion, hand outstretched.

"Anticitizens," said the Administrator shortly. Scythe 2 stopped, a visual having been declared. Even with no directive present, an errant finger held down the gauss rifle. It began to whir and spin. _Please, just-_ "Treat them as hostile. Engage. No witnesses. We're on thin enough ice as it is."

Tears streamed down the woman's face as she looked up at the towering figure standing above her, a weapon larger than her entire body leveled at her face. She covered the man's eyes. The whistling grew louder. Scythe 2's head twitched inside the metal, as if trying to look away.

Scythe 2 shot the female first. She collapsed deep into the steaming soil, making not a sound as the gauss round perforated her skull. The man's scream rent into the sky, making all three talking heads in Scythe 2's viewscreen wince. Scythe 2 did not even charge the second shot, just sent three gauss rounds into the man's torso. He twitched and gasped as the blood fountained out of him with each shot, but then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell silent, head lolling just out of reach of his companion's arms. Silence descended like a heavy curtain. The whistling in Scythe 2's head faded into a hollow roar, and then blackness once more.

"Wrong time and wrong place," said the doctor flatly, a nostril flaring. "Might have been here when the ship made touchdown. At any rate, Doctor Breen, the site would seem to be secure. It would probably be best to dispatch … stalker teams … for disassembly."

"Stalker teams," muttered the engineer angrily, turning away from his screen entirely. Scythe 2 paid them little mind. She put her back to the two entwined bodies and returned to the smoldering wreckage, retracing her steps through the fresh wake of devastation she had created.

Something flashed from within the ship. Scythe 2's energy monitors spiked dramatically.

A glimmer of yellow light, fast crystallizing into … something. A wall had fallen away in Scythe 2's passage, and now something strode from its ruin. Humanoid, but composed of flickering energy around a fragile chassis, a gun still clasped in its shimmering arms.

"Scythe 2?" The Administrator had just caught the screen, and stared open-mouthed at the creature standing before his soldier. "Er, is that…? What is that?"

"Energy readings are off the charts…" mumbled the doctor. "Dr. Chen! You should see this!"

Scythe 2 readied his weapon. _Ninety five percent chance to hit._ The energy trooper mumbled something in an alien tongue. It sounded like the shifting of crystals beneath heavy gloves. It lifted its own weapon.

"Scythe 2," said the Administrator urgently. "Whatever you do, do _not-_ "

The crystal trooper fired while sprinting forward to the nearest bit of ruined ship. Or, it would have, if Scythe 2 did not have a ninety-five percent chance to hit it. Instead, it took a single step forward and then a flying leap back as the gauss round struck it dead center.

The crystal trooper flew apart like a flock of birds taking sudden flight. The Administrator's hand, previously raised as if to admonish, fell to his side. Scythe 2 thought he heard the doctor suppress a chuckle.

"Never mind then," spat the Administrator. "Fine. Scythe 2, for future record, we need to disarm and take hold of those energy … things. The readings were off the scale. Override your defense protocols next time."

"Confirmed." Scythe 2 paused, staring at the mess they had all made. In the distance, a dropship hooted, either bringing the stalkers … or bringing them home.

The Administrator had abandoned his desk, likely to report to their benefactors. That left the doctor, with his shiny glasses and white teeth. He glanced around, as if looking for something, then leaned in.

"Good job," he whispered, then the viewscreen went dark.

When the dropships arrived, Scythe 2 took a path well away from the bodies of the two anticitizens. It was the most efficient route.

* * *

 **A/N: Good news everyone! I am writing again!**

 **"So what?" some of you may be thinking. "He'll churn out one or two chapters and then disappear again, the rat bastard."  
**  
 **Perhaps, but I am pleased to report that I am trying a new writing regimen. Two thousand words a day. No exceptions. We're on day five of this new regimen, and I have spent most of those days on painkillers from wisdom tooth removal. So I might be able to stick with it.  
**  
 **For you Sudden Terminus readers (God bless) the next chapter is half-completed. I'm probably going to complete a few chapters before I post any so I can get back in the schwing of things. I'm pretty pleased with what I have so far (turns out I rather like writing Tarquin Victus). I've been alternating between writing this and Sudden Terminus, so expect that to continue.  
**  
 **Sorry for the wait. Hope this was worth it. Hope someone is still reading.**


	12. Evolutionary Levels

One by one, the lights of Black Mesa East shut off with a hefty _kerchunk._ Hallways went dark, bedrooms turned pitch black, and the kitchen became lit only by the green numbers on the microwave's clock. Barney saw all of this as Eli Vance and he descended into the bowels of the base together, Barney leaning a little heavier than he would like on the doctor.

"We have tea in the breakroom," said the doctor as they neared the bottom, giving Barney a worried glance. Barney just smiled and nodded. The few parts of him that didn't feel the waves of exhaustion cresting over the horizon were numb from the cold of his sodden clothing. "Hmm. Let's get you out of those clothes first."

"Sounds good, doc."

The elevator came to a rickety halt at a lit room – this deep underground there was no point cutting the power, especially given the sensitivity of the equipment. Two figures greeted them on exit; the hunched over form of a vortigaunt (still a somewhat unwelcome sight) and Judith Mossman (always a welcome sight.) Of course, Barney could distinguish between the warm look she gave the doctor and the more guarded expression she gave him. _Eh. Why do the guys with PhDs get all the luck?_

"Barney! It's so good to see you're all right." She gave Barney's shoulder a swift squeeze, only to wrinkle her nose as the water welled up and out over her white knuckles. Her hand retreated swiftly to her pant leg. "Eli, we're going into lockdown and I've been hearing the most godawful noises. What's going on?"

"We are in the playground of giants," murmured the vortigaunt. "In time, we will see clearly the dark visage these titans bear…"

"It's a UFO, Judith," replied Eli hurriedly, as Barney sagged a little harder against his shoulder, making the doctor stumble. "Look, we need to get some food in Barney, and these clothes off of him."

"He can change in the security room." Judith gestured to a door behind her. "I can grab some spare clothes from the hazard shower."

Judith hurried off, while Eli escorted Barney through the door and into a swivel chair. Barney stared, eyes only half-open, at the collection of screens before him. From the glow, he could tell they were on. There was just nothing to see with the lights turned off. Barney shifted in place, and the chair made squishing sounds.

"Getting your chair wet. Sorry, doc." He meant to turn to the doctor and thank him, but for some reason he could not turn away from the screens. Something silhouetted in the darkness, making Barney dizzy. For a few moments, the world turned to a cold but safe place, a place where he could do no harm, and no harm could come to him. Then he came to abruptly, finding himself standing next to a very shaken Dr. Vance.

"Doc?" asked Barney, not sure what had just happen, but Eli just backed away from him. "Sorry, I guess I blanked out there for a second. Is something wrong?"

"Not again," muttered Eli, head shaking twice, his gaze fixed on the floor. One hand went to his brow, then to his chest, then to either side of his chest. Barney could not remember what the word for that was, but he knew what it meant. "No, I know what that means."

Light spilled into the dimness of the security station as Dr. Mossman strolled inside, pressed an folded civilian clothes in her arms. Her expression immediately changed to one of concern.

"Eli? What's wrong?"

Eli stiffened, as if coming out of some kind of trance. His head snapped up to Barney, then to Dr. Mossman, then the screen. His expression softened, but some panicked fire still danced in his eyes.

"It's – it's nothing. Sorry, Judith. Barney – it's fine. Let's get you dressed. We'll wait outside." Eli put a hand on Dr. Mossman's back and steered her out of the room. The door shut. After a moment, it opened again, and Dr. Mossman sheepishly handed Barney the clothes. _It's been a long day for everyone, feels like. What the hell was that about?_ Barney glanced back at the security screens. Funny, he hadn't noticed them turning off. The room was now almost black as pitch, the only light coming from the bottom and sides of the door.

Barney stripped his soaked clothing and flung into the corner with a squelch. Part of him hoped someone would burn the damn things, but he doubted the stuff would ever catch fire. _Plus, it would be a waste._ He donned his fresh set of clothes – jeans, an undershirt, and a scratchy white woolen sweater – and swung the door open. Eli now leaned against the wall, with Dr. Mossman resting a hand against his upper arm. He still gave Barney a bright, if tired, smile as he emerged as a much warmer mess.

"You're sure you're okay, Eli?" asked Dr. Mossman, but Eli waved her off gently.

"It's not me we should be worried about," said Eli, standing from the wall. "How does it fit, Barney? Not too snug, I hope?"

"Nah, it's good. Thanks doc." Barney glanced curiously to his right. Wires crisscrossed the ceiling and ran to the machines that lay before him. A series of monitors adorned a handful of cluttered desks, all of them still turned on. And between the desks, a familiar and unwelcome sight. Blue ribbons of steel surrounding a small blue platform. The other end of Kleiner's teleport. "Man. Part of me almost hopes you get that thing working so I don't have to make that trip back."

"Heh, I can hardly believe my ears, Barney. Especially given what happened with that cat." Eli's brow furrowed. "I know this isn't the most important, but … you didn't tell Alyx about that, did you?"

Barney lifted his right hand. "Scout's honor, doc. Far as she knows, Lamarr's the only pet we ever kept at that lab." _Actually, why don't we send_ her _through the teleporter?_ "I heard something about tea?"

"We have brought the beverage," murmured a voice from beyond the closest door in front of them. The vortigaunt emerged with a single steaming cup of tea. "We who weave the Vortessence have communed and discovered, with some difficulty, that the Barney Calhoun takes sugar."

"Knew there was a reason we kept you guys around." Barney accepted the piping hot mug gratefully. "Thanks, uh…?"

"This one requires no name, for the moment." The vortigaunt inclined his head and brought his hands together. "The Eli Vance should attend to the Vahlen Doctor. She is protesting her inability to dissect the specimens without a source of light."

" _That's_ what she's worried about?" asked Eli, sounding incredulous. Barney and Dr. Mossman exchanged glances behind his back. _Yeah, that doesn't surprise me in the least._ "All right, stop her from doing anything too crazy. I need to talk to these two, and then I can get back to the thick of it."

"We will depart and restrain the Vahlen Doctor from performing any acts that lack overt sanity." The vortigaunt inclined his head once more. As he turned to leave, he sniffed once, and then cast a look back at Barney Calhoun. His lip turned upward, revealing pointed teeth.

"Something secret-"

"We'll discuss that later," said Eli sharply, making Barney wonder what the hell was going on. _I'm missing something here. Might be because I'm tired._ He took a sip of his tea. _Holy hell, that's just the right amount of sugar._

"So Eli," said Dr. Mossman weakly, "a UFO?"

"Is it so difficult to believe, Judith, given the world we live in?" Eli sighed and rubbed his temples. "These … damn, I don't know what else to call them, these "grays" have been hounding Barney up and down the canals. When they finally caught him in the open, they sent in a flying saucer, maybe sixty feet across. The Combine didn't like that – hit it with a suppression device from the Citadel."

"They must have set it to the artillery configuration." Barney slumped back against the security room door. "Jesus. And if that's active and we have a spy-"

Eli swept a hand in front of him. "They could wipe us out at any given moment. We've already packed up the Railroad. We might have to do the same here."

"But where would we go?" Dr. Mossman shook her head. "Eli, the vortigaunts have lost contact with the Coast, and White Forest is just as vulnerable to a strike from the Citadel. We'd have to start all over. We've already been living with the Combine's Sword of Damocles dangling over our head…"

"It's just something to consider, Judith," said Eli, giving her a knowing look. "Believe me, I'd rather not go through the headache of trying to get our people through the wastelands. Or, God forbid, Ravenholm."

"Rather the teleport than Ravenholm," said Barney, meaning it. He took another sip of his tea. "Still, might want to perform a few evacuation drills. Make sure people know where the deepest and thickest parts of the base are. And the escape routes." A short silence descended between the three of them.

"This is a good thing, though, isn't it?" asked Dr. Mossman hesitantly. "These invaders – we don't know if they are on our side, or amenable to being on our side, but they're fighting the Combine. That's good, isn't it?"

Eli gave Barney a knowing look before answering the doctor. "When the HECU stormed Black Mesa, Judith, they fought the Xen invaders. That was a good thing too, wasn't it?"

"From your perspective, perhaps not-"

"No, Judith," said Eli, swiping across the air again with the flat of his hand. "No, it was not. The damage could have been contained if they had cooperated with the science team, instead of going the path of least resistance and trying to deny all accountability. That is why I am drawing this comparison: they tried to _kill_ Barney. They hunted him like an animal. They did not try to establish any dialogue. If and when they do, I might be amenable. But until then, I am not willing to assume that any enemy of the Combine is an enemy of ours. They clearly have their own agenda, here."

"But it could be a good thing, doc," said Barney, feeling a stab of anxiety as the two doctors turned to look at him. _Hell, at any point in my life did I ever picture inserting myself in an argument between two hard science PhDs?_ "Allied or no, these guys have given the Combine something else to shoot at. And maybe we could learn something from them, find some kind of weapon?"

"Or, alternatively, these aliens have poked the hornet's nest and are only now realizing that the air has filled with buzzing." Eli shook his head. "Do you think these invaders have brought seven billion soldiers with them, Barney? And if they did, do you think it would be enough? They brought in a UFO, yes, very impressive, but the Combine shot it down in mere minutes after it made an appearance."

"They do have mind control, doc," said Barney, shrugging. "I dunno. You asked me a week ago how we were gonna kick the Combine off the planet, I would have told you we couldn't. Now, I would say … well, I would say I dunno, but if that there is a way, a war between the Combine and E.T. would be our opening."

"No. A full-scale war would be the end of us." Eli rubbed his chin. "But … something smaller, something Dr. Breen felt he could control for his puppetmasters…"

"The Combine have not opened a superportal since the Seven Hour War's conclusion," added Dr. Mossman. "Their tunneling method is inefficient; we know this. So long as the alien operations remain small – and if we keep our own operations small – they should see no reason to trouble the homeworld."

"This is just supposition." Eli rubbed his temples, but still looked up to the two of them with a grin. "All right, you two. You've both given me a lot to think about, but it's getting late. Barney, you've already pulled an all-nighter, so you need to get some rest." He pressed his palms together and put them under his chin before looking to Judith pleadingly. "And … could you help me with Moira?"

"The woman knows her operating suite is not the priority here," snapped Dr. Mossman, and she marched to the elevator. Eli hung back for a second. "We've prepared quarters for you, down the hall and to the right." Eli gestured to the door the vortigaunt had disappeared through. "Should be some stew on a hot plate in there, if you're hungry. There's a hazard shower across the way as well, if you want to wipe off the rest of the river's gunk."

"All sounds good to me, doc." Barney pulled Eli into a one-armed hug, making the man chuckle. "All right. Don't let Dr. Vahlen drive you crazy, now."

"It's too late for me," called out Dr. Mossman from the elevator. Barney and Eli parted with shared grunts of laughter. As soon as Barney closed the door behind him, he staggered against a wall, head spinning a little. _No more adventures for a little bit. Jesus._

He found his "quarters" easily enough – a repurposed storage closet that likely once stored tinned Cold War rations. Bare concrete walls and a bare concrete ceiling, from which a lightbulb on a spindly wire dangled, filling the room with a dull and flickering light. A cot sat in the corner with a dirtied mattress and threadbare blanket slumped over it. A hot plate filled with bubbling brown gruel steamed atop a small folding table alongside it, a grubby bowl and spoon laid neatly before it. Barney downed the rest of his tea and set the cup down on the table before digging in to his meager meal, which he was delighted to find had some meat floating in it. _You know, despite what they're called, they really don't taste like crab._

No sooner had Barney finished the last spoonful and wiped the film from his mouth, his head drooped again. This time he had a place to rest it. He collapsed gratefully on top of his bed and felt sleep edge into his consciousness almost immediately.

If Barney dreamt of anything, he forgot about it once he woke up. Someone was shaking his arm and saying his name. For a moment he thought it was Kleiner.

"Hell, doc, lay off, would-" He stopped, blinking. A man with a wispy beard and dressed in full lambda gear, bulletproof vest and all, stepped back apologetically. "Ah. Not a doc, sorry." He stood from the bed, shedding the blanket.

"Hey, you don't know that!" replied the soldier, winking. "Plenty of docs in this base. This is just my, ah, part-time job."

The way the man said it, Barney could tell he was not nearly old enough to have been an adult prior to the occupation. _Jesus, how are we gonna rehabilitate the whole planet after this?_ A stupid question, really. There were a few other steps to cover in the plan before they got to the "how do we recover" stage.

"Right. Believe me, I know. Used to work security at this one place, Black Mesa?" Barney shook his head. "Man, that place had the worst workplace safety. I had one coworker who said his daily commute took him over a toxic waste spill, can you believe it?"

The soldier laughed, but nervously. Barney could tell he did not know how much of what he had just said was true. _Is it still funny if he knew I made none of it up?_

"Anyway, there a reason you waking me up on my day off, pal?" continued Barney. The soldier shifted uncomfortably, still not sure if Barney was joking.

"Uh, sorry Calhoun, didn't know. The docs want to speak to you upstairs, in Vahlen's playground." He jerked a gloved thumb back behind him. "Second floor, up the elevator. I think they're doing an autopsy of those things that followed you down the dam."

"Oh goody," said Barney, trying and failing to muster any kind of enthusiasm. "Look man, I'm not a doc either. What the hell do they think I'll get from any of this?" Barney glanced longingly back at his rumpled blanket.

"I dunno. Maybe they just need a security guard?"

Barney shook his head. _Swear to God, it's like the day of the incident. Fucking Sector C scientists not even able to operate an elevator without my help._

"You may as well take me, man. I don't remember where it is." _Plus, I like staying out of Dr. Vahlen's way._ What little he knew about the woman suggested she would have been right at home in the Resonance Cascade control room, cheerfully suggesting they push the equipment past 105%, just to see what would happen.

The soldier shrugged and stepped outside, leaving Barney to follow, yawning.

"How long I been out?"

"Ten hours," replied the guy, making Barney snort. _Okay, never mind, I got enough sleep._ "We've powered on some of the upper levels of the facility, since we don't need the lights to see right now. Heard tell that there's a big old crash site a ways off from us, but the Combine are crawling all over it. Don't think we're getting any pieces."

"Do we need any?" asked Barney as they entered the open elevator. The soldier pounded the second floor button. "We got corpses to work with, you'd think that would be good enough."

The soldier shrugged. "That's for the docs to say. Way I see it, I don't want to go anywhere near where the Combine have taken an active interest. When they actually give a fuck about something, they don't usually hold back from making sure they get it."

"Yeah, no kidding." Barney thought back to his CP days. _Yeah, when it's time to escalate, they never hesitated about sending in striders._ _Still, it usually took a lot to make them want to escalate._

The elevator came to another rickety halt. The soldier continued onward, gesturing to the rooms on his right. It looked like a classroom – no, a high school science lab – dressed up to give it some semblance of propriety. The alien corpses, laying flat against gurneys, or several gurneys in the case of the bigger pink-skinned fuckers, definitely helped in that regard. Trays of surgical instruments lined each corpse, and a short woman with brown hair, dressed in blue scrubs stood over … one of the E.T.s, but not Barney's find. Eli and Dr. Mossman glanced up as Barney stood at the entrance, but she remained intent on her work, her rubber gloves coated in a sickly green color.

"Doc, is there some scientific reason all the alien bastards who come to our planet bleed green or yellow blood?" asked Barney. But Eli just pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for him to come over. Barney obeyed. Dr. Vahlen gave no impression of having heard him.

"Heavy muscular degeneration," reported the doctor in slightly accented English. "There is a single lung here, similar to a bird's. Consistent with the primary specimen. With one significant difference." Dr. Vahlen removed her hands from the alien's torso and instead reached for its skull. Barney grimaced as she widened a hole she had apparently made earlier and angled it for the audience's viewing pleasure. "There. See? The cranium of the primary specimen is noticeably distended, while this one is smaller, reflected by the relatively smaller size of the brain."

"So, the bigger brained creature is some kind of leader?" asked Eli, brow furrowing.

"Tough to say. Complicated by the blood samples." Dr. Vahlen removed her hands from the hole. "According to our DNA test, they are all the same individual. Genetic clones."

"Begun, the Clone Wars have," intoned Barney, making Dr. Mossman giggle before catching herself. The other two plainly did not get the reference.

"Clones?" asked Eli. He pointed to Barney's E.T. who did, Barney suddenly noticed, have a much larger skull than the other ones he had seen. "Moira, if these are all the same individual, why has this one's brain and cranium experienced a 40% increase in mass?"

"Post-birth operation," said Dr. Vahlen, sounding quite certain. She glanced to the corner, where, to Barney's shock, a vortigaunt he had not even noticed stood – carrying a clipboard and wearing a lab coat! "Igor, bring up the slides."

"Igor?" asked Barney weakly. Eli shook his head slightly. Dr. Vahlen again ignored him. Igor slid a projector from the wall and pressed a hand against it. Green light flowed from his fingers and into the projector, which lit a shaky image on to the room's blackboard. X-ray scans of a skull and brain shone from its surface.

"Surgical scars – not mine – here, here, and here," said Dr. Vahlen, each "here" punctuated with a click as she shone a laser pointer on parts of the screen. "The brain is structured differently than ours or a vortigaunt's, but retains the same familiar patterns of decision-making, autonomous life functions, and personality." Dr. Vahlen circled each area with her laser pointer. "There are two areas, however, that appear to be severely underdeveloped in our, hmm, "non-gifted" specimens."

"Decision making and leadership capability," said Dr. Mossman, plainly following something that Barney could not, "and … what?"

Dr. Vahlen developed a glint in her eye. That, Barney could pick up on. His heart gave a start as she rounded on him.

"I am told you procured the primary specimen, yes?"

"E.T.?" asked Barney, trying not to stutter. Dr. Vahlen tutted.

"Are you going to reference every single pop sci-fi film while you are here, Calhoun? Yes, "E.T.," the larger-brained specimen."

"Yeah, I brought him in. Had to waste him with a high caliber pulse rifle mounted on an APC."

"And he exhibited, for lack of better vernacular, mind control capabilities over a Civil Protection officer?" asked Dr. Vahlen.

"Yeah, made the guy waste another officer. I think it also spoke through him. But yeah, it definitely got ahold of the guy's brain and puppeteered him."

"But the lesser specimens have not exhibited this behavior." Dr. Vahlen gestured to her latest subject, as well as the other one. "Psionic aptitude, let us call it. Igor, would you concur?"

"These bonds they weave, they are not of the Vortessence," murmured Igor, casting a red eye to those assembled. "Nor are they kin with Shu'ulathoi. Their bonds are of a different nature, honed to be a weapon. A crueler, simpler means of sharpening the mind into little more than a dagger." The vortigaunt coughed. "But yes, the Vahlen Doctor asks, and we answer. Psionics, as we understand the term, is applicable."

"Psychic powers then?" Barney shrugged. Really, what else could he call what the vortigaunts did? And hell, it made the whole "E.T." thing even more appropriate. _Score one for Calhoun, science. Suck it!_

"I prefer psionics. We might be trapped in an austere scientific environment, but that is no reason to lapse into overly general terms." Dr. Vahlen gave another smile. "But what is especially important to note is that this part of the brain, its neural map? Is not entirely absent in humans."

Dr. Mossman and Eli donned expressions of mixed interest and shock. Igor growled a little, but it was tough to tell if it was out of anger. Barney, flashing back to his own struggles in high school chemistry, politely raised his hand.

"Doc, gotta be honest, not sure why you wanted me up here. But since you did, you know, drag me out of bed, mind telling this humble former community college student what you're saying?"

"She's saying that humanity might not be entirely cut off from these kinds of abilities, as improbable as that might sound," said Dr. Mossman, frowning. "But, given that we manifestly do not have human psychics running around…"

"Human psionic users," insisted Dr. Vahlen with a wagging finger, making Dr. Mossman's face turn stony. "No, we do not at present have access to these kinds of abilities. However, neither did the original cloned specimen." Dr. Vahlen pointed to one of the smaller-skulled E.T.s. "We have reason to believe that some kind of surgical procedure or stimulus can endow these, to be frank, pathetic creatures with an incredible power. There is a possibility, if an outlandish one, that we might be able to accomplish something similar with our own people."

No one spoke for a few moments. Eli was the one to eventually rest a hand on Dr. Vahlen's bloodstained shoulder. "Moira," said Eli, "if we can give ourselves a weapon the Combine have little or no defense against, I would be fully on board with that. However, whatever tests we conduct, whomever we conduct them on, it must be safe enough that an internal review board back in the States would accept it. That's my request. Do you understand?"

"Humanity is in the throes of enforced mass sterilization," replied Dr. Vahlen stoically. "I would be foolish to waste test subjects, doctor."

"Plus, you know," said Barney stepping forward with arms stretched to either side of him, "it would be wrong."

"Yes. Obviously."

"Well, this has my support, at least," said Dr. Mossman. "Moira – what did you have in mind?"

"I will need to run more tests on the bodies before I can begin postulating what might be done." Dr. Vahlen glanced to Igor. "I would appreciate your peoples' help with this. There is some, however small, similarity between your brain's own link to the Vortessence and this alien's psionic brain center. I fully admit I am out of my element."

"These powers are useless in absence of discipline," growled Igor, removing his hand from the projector, which died immediately. "We will do what we can. If the worst does not come to pass, we will ensure your warrior's capabilities will be almost … vortal."

"So, you see no problem with humans developing these kinds of abilities?" asked Eli. The vortigaunt shook his head.

"Would that we had an endless sea of time, to eventually draw you and yours up from the eddies of rank ignorance and into the shallows of enlightened Vortessence. But the Combine and these … pretenders at wisdom, demand a swift response. We are willing to permit the unthinkable and draw you at long last to our side."

"You are certain there will be no unforeseen consequences?" asked Eli, with a strange sharpness that made Barney's neck hair prickle.

The vortigaunt gave Eli a long, drawn out stare.

"If these consequences are unforeseeable, then how would we foresee them? The Eli Vance must draw his own conclusions. We have said our piece."

"Right." Eli rubbed his chin. "I … I think we should continue, assuming we can do so safely."

"I am, however, going to need more specimens," said Dr. Vahlen. She gave Barney a long look. Barney soon began to understand why she had called him up here. "Preferably live ones."

Barney gave Dr. Vahlen the largest, and most insincere smile he could humanly muster.

"Of course you do, doc."


	13. Instinct

"Black Mesa East to White Forest, come in White Forest."

John Bradford grunted, looking up from where he sat with an elevated leg. Even with all the xen fluid they'd pumped into it, the damn thing still ached. _Just a walking pile of injuries these days._ As he pulled the leg off of the stool with a thump, it twinged with pain. _Thought comms duty was supposed to keep me out of harm's way?_ John grumbled, limping over to the radio, glad no one could see him.

"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, read you loud and clear, over."

"Is that you, Bradford?" asked the radio. _Dr. Mossman. One of maybe five non-Black Mesa scientists I can think of still running around here._ John nurtured a private appreciation of Dr. Mossman. Part of it was that she did not demonize the HECU for doing their damn jobs in a difficult situation. The other came from filling out a sweater like nobody's business … not that he would ever admit it.

"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, Captain John Bradford speaking, over." John hoped the doctor would pick up the hint.

"What do they have you running comms for, John?" asked Dr. Mossman, making John roll his eyes. _Not even an "over" at the end of the transmission._

"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, we are currently on lockdown due to slight escalation with local Combine forces in the area. I am still running security, but field operations are suspended." John paused momentarily, not sure how much to talk up his ability to a PhD. He'd capped out at a Masters in Homeland Security. _And what a fucking joke that is in this day and age._ "I am also only one of three pre-Cascade HAM radio certified personnel on base, over." The radio crackled for a few moments before Dr. Mossman responded.

"Bravo … Mike Echo? To Whiskey Foxtrot," began Dr. Mossman, earning her a nod of approval that she would never see, "we are also on lockdown. Have you caught wind of unusual activity in the air, over?"

 _In the air?_

"Combine air forces vacated our immediate vicinity a few days ago," replied John. "Ground activity has been minimal. Only thing in our airspace is crows, over."

"Bravo Mike Echo, be advised; we have detected multiple unknown aerial incursions by a third party." John cocked his head at this, not sure what the hell he was hearing. "Their vehicles are … for a lack of a better term or description, flying saucers. Yes, John, I know what you are thinking, but this is not a joke, over."

 _No. You, of all people, would not make a joke like this. Might be why you're the one sending out the message. I could see Calhoun, maybe, trying to pull some kind of stunt. But not the Iron Sweater Lady._

"Can you give me a rundown on what to expect from these, uh, UFOs, over?" _Why does this feel difficult to believe? I saw a mile-and-a-half long tower fall out of a portal and into the middle of New York._

"Invaders have access to plasma weaponry and their foot soldiers are, I am told, on par in musculature and temperament with a xenian grunt." The sound of rustling papers sounded through the radio. "Only I have been told they shoot, and I quote, "Godawful blasts of green plasma energy that melts steel instead of angry bees." Over."

"I wish that sentence didn't make sense to me. Over." _God, I almost forgot about the bees._

"Other forces have demonstrated limited mind control capability over non or lightly modified humans," continued Dr. Mossman, almost sounding like she did not quite believe what she was reading, herself. "They have also learned to disguise themselves as citizens using some kind of … snake-like creatures. They look like citizens but possess inhuman capabilities and the ability to spit poison. Over."

"I should be writing this down," mumbled John without hitting the transmitter. "Uh, copy all, anything else?" John took the momentary silence as an opportunity to grab a grubby notepad and the stub of a pencil. _Snake … poison … disguise. Psychic powers … plasma weapons…_

"The Outlands should be more secure than usual – the Combine have retreated to the cities and entered a state of high alert," continued Dr. Mossman. John raised an eyebrow. _Oh?_ "The Railroad in City 17 has been destroyed, partially as a consequence. Expect swift reprisal for urban incursions, but also expect more leeway than usual in outlying regions, over."

"I'll spread the word. Over." John pressed the remnant of the pencil's eraser to his lips. Then he wrote, very carefully, " _Time to go nuts_ " on the paper.

"Bravo Mike Echo will keep all known operating outposts updated. As a final note: we have lost contact with our coastal bases. We believe the new invaders are responsible, but we also know that no vortal cords have been cut – no reported vortigaunt fatalities. So negotiation may be possible. Over." John rolled his eyes.

"Sure. Over."

"That's all we have right now, John," continued Dr. Mossman, sounding a little nervous. "Stay safe out there and keep your eyes open. Say hello to Dr. Magnusson for me. Over and out."

"Give the Vances my regards. Over and out." The radio cut out with a snap. John stared down at his notes, half-expecting them to turn into worms or something, and then he'd wake up in bed. Instead, his leg hurt. He sat back down in his chair and lifted it up to the rickety stool. "Guess it's, uh, time to go nuts." _No Combine in my zone. I can think of quite a few buildings I'd like to booby trap for when they come back._

But that was not his primary concern. With a grunt, he removed his leg and limped to the wall, hitting the intercom button.

"Daniels to the Comm Center, I'm taking a walk." Then he waited dutifully for Daniels to finish his coffee, or masturbating, or quietly weeping (White Forest did resemble at least one of his postings in the Corps in that respect, he supposed) while he manned the radio. About three minutes later, a clean-shaven and red-faced Daniels sidled into the room, a thermos in his shaking grip.

"What do you need, Bradford?"

"Sit and listen," said John, pointing to the radio and then shoving the notepad, sans the first sheet of paper, into the man's free hand. "If it's Black Mesa East, make sure to write down everything they say. I'm going to speak to my team; I think it's time to end the lockdown."

"Well, uh, that's good." But John did not have time to chat. Straightening his leg and back, he walked as best he could out of the Comm Center and into the winding steel corridors of the White Forest missile silos.

Somewhere below, he could hear Dr. Magnusson shouting at hapless technicians while his pet vortigaunt, Uriah, likely stared on placidly. _I think Dr. Mossman's greeting will have to wait._ John continued onward, boots ringing against the metal of White Forest's floors. Then he crossed a bulkhead threshold, and the floor turned to concrete. The other side of the bulkhead opened, and John breathed in fresh mountain air. _A pity I can't stay out in the sun._

John continued through the courtyard, nodding to the sentries posted atop the nearby rooftops, their rifles and RPGs glinting in the warm sun. He stopped before a door copiously covered in post-it notes, all of them covered in variants of the word "caution," and knocked smartly three times. A slot on the door opened at eye level. John stated Jane Kelly dead in the eyes and privately dared her to ask him the password.

"Pass-"

"Not in the mood. Is the team still down there?" The way Jane Kelly glanced away for a second was not reassuring.

"Yes," she said, in a way that clearly indicated an incoming "but." "But-"

"Good. Open up." John knew his tone brooked no argument, although he also knew sometimes Jane Kelly would be open to an argument anyway. This time, at least, the slot closed, and the door opened. Jane Kelly stood at the side of the door, arms folded, not quite catching John's eye. _Oh, God, what is it now? I've got UFOs and snake men to worry about, for fuck's sake._ "Lead on." John shut the door behind him. Jane Kelly bit her lip and proceeded down the concrete steps. The staccato of rapid gunfire rattled up the winding staircase, louder and louder as they went.

"Someone's really letting them rip," said John, not certain whether to be impressed or concerned. Some of his newer people would squeeze the trigger until it went click, but usually only out of panic. The only thing they generally ended up hitting under such circumstances was either a teammate or themselves. Still, he could hear gaps in the shooting, so there had to be some aiming going on.

Jane Kelly did not say anything. They rounded the last part of the stairwell and into the best firing range they could come up with in the aftermath of an apocalypse: wooden sheets with Dr. Breen's face spray painted on or the general profile of a Combine soldier, empty beer cans and bottles, and of course, about three hundred meters of empty space for them to set up their targets. If there was only one thing John could wish for, it would be ear protection. Up close, the echoing blasts, even from the relatively small caliber of the submachinegun, made his ears bleed. Figuratively, for the moment.

Vickers and Vandal waved at him from the bench. Arrow and Menloff stood to the side, watching the shooter and shouting at each other over the din. Indeed, John looked around and saw his entire team present, but not shooting. Which meant…

"What did I say about letting randos in here?" bellowed John, making Jane wince. He rounded on her. "Is that why you're all skittish? What, someone bribe you with a can of beans? Who is this motherfucker?" John pushed his way past Menloff, who gaped at him as he passed. "Who is-"

John stopped short. Adrian Shephard calmly let his spent magazine clatter to the floor before reaching for the next shoved into his belt. He did not acknowledge John in any way, but instead took aim down range. John glanced over his shoulder.

When John had last set up the range, targets had been set up for every hundred meters. Most of his people could manage well with their pulse rifles at any range but struggled past one hundred meters with the MP7. Jane Kelly could manage the best at it, but only (a little bafflingly) after drinking. John didn't need his people to engage at that range with a SMG anyway.

Yet here Shephard was.

"Breathe," he said. "Squeeze the trigger at each NRP. Do you remember?"

Shephard was breathing. Heavily. His shoulders went up and down, and his jaw appeared locked in place. What Jane had been thinking, giving the man a gun when he was like this, was beyond him, and he soon intended to find out. But for the moment, well, he could remember a few of his buddies back when, coming back from the sand box. _They found some relief in doing this. Some of them. For others, the sound of gunfire sent them back to a bad place._ But the fools had already given him a gun. So there was only one way forward, unless he felt like risking reenacting a certain scene from _Full Metal Jacket. And you know what? Now's not the day._

"I was on base just a week ago," muttered Shephard, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, I remember. I wouldn't be here if I didn't." John stepped back.

"Three-round bursts. Way you're shooting, might be able to hit all targets in one breath. Center mass." Adrian nodded at John's words. John turned and clapped to his people. "Targets at two hundred meters! Go!"

Vandal slammed her hand against the control panel. Wooden profiles shot up from the floor, propelled by the crappy rig that John had set up. From where John stood, he could see the targets well enough to catch the splinters as they flew forth.

Adrian fired in three round bursts with barely a half-second between each volley. Brass flew freely from his weapon in a stream of steaming metal, and his wrists twitched as the targets shot up from the floor in a pattern John had hoped would see random. It did not faze Corporal Shephard.

The gun went click and the range went silent. John motioned for someone to check the targets, and Jane Kelly hurried out there. Adrian just stood there, panting, feeling for another magazine that was not there. _And I'm not giving him another one. Not yet._ John approached his comrade gingerly, trying not to make any sudden moves.

"Ammunition wasn't a concern at Black Mesa so much," Adrian said absentmindedly. "There were so many bodies. Our guys. Security guards. Scientists."

"Yeah." John remembered. Their unit had airdropped in crates of ammo as the fighting had gone on, but there were already plenty of munitions on base. _Part of the benefit of fighting in America, I guess. No shortage of ammunition or weapons._ "I don't remember seeing any MP7s there, though."

"No. First time with this gun." Adrian glanced down at his weapon, as if only really noticing it for the first time. "What the fuck caliber is this? It's not 9 mil, is it?"

"Four point six by thirty."

"What the fuck kind of round is that?" Adrian shook his head and then brandished his weapon. "And why the hell do we have so many of these things lying around?"

"Combine took a liking to them," replied John. "Damned if I know why. Kelly?" The woman now jogged back from the end of the range, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Forty-two fresh holes at 200 meters, Captain. Only missed the last target."

Adrian shrugged. "Had to leave one to tell the other targets what he saw."

John chuckled. "Out of a forty-five round mag, that's pretty good. Looks like you've still got it."

"Be a piss-poor marine if I didn't," spat Adrian with surprising venom. "I was at Black Mesa a week ago, Bradford, I swear to God. It's not my fault time's gotten all fucky."

"No, it isn't." John kept his tone gentle. He gave Jane a look. "Based on what we've seen here today, do you think we can make use of this guy?"

"He's shooting better than any of us, sir." Jane spread her arms wide. "We're not likely to get anyone coming out of the cities like him. You two are the only ex-military people we have."

"What, Cubbage doesn't count?" But John's heart was not really in the joke. _God. Combine took the rest of us. Hunted down every survivor and turned them to their side. Sometimes it seems like Resistance just means you go from dying a death by Combine negligence to a eternal life in their service. Best way to go is in combat, before they can grab you…_ Adrian might still be stuck in Black Mesa, but John had had plenty of other demons to wrestle with since then. And plenty of bodies to bury, too.

"No, sir, he does not." John barely heard Jane's reply, but it did bring him back to the present.

"Right. Rest of you head on upstairs while I chat with Miss Kelly, here." John clapped Adrian on the shoulder as he passed by. "Leave the gun here, marine. My range, my rules."

"Yes sir," said Adrian stiffly. He left the MP7 resting on the rack with the rest of them. John waited for the sound of echoing footsteps to fade. Then he gave Jane the coolest look he could manage, with just a hint of a curl of the lip.

"Look, it all worked out, all right-"

"And if it hadn't? If it turned out you had just handed an emotionally unstable marine a loaded weapon while surrounded by near-complete strangers in an incredibly alien environment?" John shook his head. "That could have gone incredibly fucking badly, Jane. You have no idea what kind of trauma he's living with."

"Is it true, sir?" asked Jane. "Is he really from Black Mesa? Did you know each other from before?"

"Don't change the subject." John took a step closer to Jane, folded his arms. "You do something like that again, you'll be stuck on guard duty in the secondary silo until the next Seven Hour War. Fuck, if we weren't so short on people, I'd sure as hell love to arrange something worse. You understand?" John jabbed a finger at the ground. "My range. My squad. My rules. The world might have ended, but my standards have not. You understand?"

"I do. I'm sorry." Jane Kelly looked and sounded contrite at least, with her head bowed, only intermittently making eye contact. John nodded.

"Outstanding." He held a palm towards the entrance. "After you." Jane began to shamble up the stairs. John paused for a moment, and then decided to go for it. "And for what it is worth, I think it did do him some good."

"That was the hope, Captain," she said, so quiet John almost did not hear. He chose not to say anything back.

John found Adrian surrounded by a half-circle of admirers at the top of the staircase, and he seemed to be taking their questions in stride, even laughing as Vickers said something to him.

"No, I knew a few guys who shot straighter when drunk," he said nodding. "I think they just got nervous every time they shot, maybe because they had a DI hovering over them that would scream at the top of their lungs at the most minor fucking mistakes."

"Bradford does that sometimes," said Vandal, apparently not realizing John now stood directly behind her. "Usually to freak out the newer people fresh from the city, like this one idiot who insisted he could punch hunters to death-"

"The radio operator, yes," said John, trying to suppress laughter as Vandal nearly jumped out of her skin. "The expert on the AR3, a weapon I desperately hope to procure one day." John met Adrian's gaze. "Nice shooting, tex. You keep that up on the field, world will be saved in no time."

"You mean you guys were holding out on the whole world saving thing until I showed back up?" asked Adrian, clearly performing for the people in the room. He took a step backward with a hand on his chest. "Well hell, I'm honored."

"Heh. Don't get cocky, marine. Wait until you see some of things we're up against."

Adrian smiled, like he'd thought of something really clever to say, but the shriek of the intercom cut him off. Then the voice that bellowed forth from it outright wiped the smile from his face.

"Bradford, damn it, where are you? We have a major situation here! Report to the primary silo entrance immediately, and hurry! I don't have time for any more of your dilly dallying!"

"So many good people died at Black Mesa," said Adrian, staring up at the intercom, "how the fuck was he not one of them?"

"Who the fuck said he was good?" John sighed. "Head back downstairs and arm up. Meet me at the primary silo entrance in ten. I'll go see what it is."

"Even me, sir?" asked Adrian as the others hustled back downstairs.

"You got your shit squared away for the moment?" Adrian nodded. "Then yeah, especially you. Go grab a goddamn gun, marine."

Adrian saluted (and what an odd thing it was to see done correctly, after so many years) and sprinted after his new companions. John turned on his heel and kicked open the door. What he expected upon exiting was to see people rushing by to deal with whatever fresh nonsense Dr. Magnusson was stirring up. What he got instead was a half dozen mechanics looking up at the skies with their hand shading their eyes like it was a goddamn solar eclipse.

"What are you people-" John didn't even finish his sentence and already felt stupid. "Oh, of course. For fuck's sake." A (sigh) flying saucer, green and purple lights flashing, rotating smoothly about fifty feet above them, hovered with all the grace, dignity, and potential energy of a particularly garish hummingbird. Being a firm believer in Murphy's Law, this event did not wholly surprise John. What did surprise him was when a voice sounded from the UFO.

"Attention White Forest!" boomed a voice that put a rather unnecessary emphasis on the "wh" in "white." "This is Speaker Odessa Cubbage of the ADVENT! We are about to make a landing! Please do not open fire on us, we are here to establish diplomatic relations!"

"Is this real?" asked John, directing his question at the closest oil-covered mechanic. "Is this actually happening?" The man gave him a look of mixed terror and resignation.

"I knew that pot of coffee had gone bad!"

"I'm not on acid," said John to himself as he took off, sprinting to the (thankfully open) bulkhead and through the steel corridors. "I'm not on acid, I'm not on acid…"

"Bradford? Bradford, have you heard a word I have said? Are you deaf as well as blind? Have you seen what we are dealing with?" Dr. Magnusson's voice doubled on itself as John hurtled towards the silo entrance – he could hear the man himself making his announcement. "Get up here this instant!"

"Here," panted John, just as the good doctor put the intercom back in its place. "Sorry, I was-"

"At your little shooting gallery no doubt," replied Magnusson smoothly, looking John up and down. "Well, I hope you had fun with your toys, because we might end up using them for real in a few minutes." He put his hands on his hips. "I trust you did not waste _all_ of our ammunition?"

"Guaranteeing your people don't miss on the field is never a waste of ammunition, Doctor," snapped John. "And I think you'll be pleased to see how our newest recruit handles himself."

"Would that be the delusional young man who fancies himself a time-travelling member of your former unit?" Dr. Magnusson sniffed. "To tell the truth, I am pleased to see the man can tie his own shoelaces, given his obvious cognitive struggles." Magnusson glanced at the doors and then spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Although, truth be told, perhaps I should not say anything. Did something contaminate the water? Are we, indeed, in our right frame of mind? Because I know I am not alone in seeing and hearing this."

"We got a transmission from Black Mesa East about fifteen minutes ago," said John, knowing he was about to get reamed out, and justifiably so. "They, uh, warned us about this. The UFO part, not the Cubbage part. So this is real."

Dr. Magnusson nodded rapidly, giving John a very obvious fake smile.

"But naturally you saw fit to inform your underlings of this first, rather than the man who runs this entire facility?" Dr. Magnusson kept nodding to himself and began heading towards the entrance . "Yes, yes, that makes perfect sense. Just as much sense as COLONEL ODESSA CUBBAGE COMMANDEERING A GODDAMN UFO."

John decided to keep the fact that he had not, in fact, had time to inform the team of the developing situation just yet to himself. _But that was a mistake. Let myself get distracted by Adrian._ Although, the whole "unstable man with a gun" thing had kind of thrown him off to start with. As he stepped into the afternoon sun only to find it shaded by the UFO passing overhead, he decided to just call the whole thing a wash.

 _This is a weird fucking day and the usual rules just do not apply._

The UFO now hovered about twenty-five feet above the road leading into the silo entrance. John nodded at the men and women on top of the roofs and towers, RPG launchers, crossbows, and rifles in their grips and all trained on the hovering vessel. He and Dr. Magnusson were joined by the hunched form of Magnusson's vortigaunt, Uriah, who kept his eyes trained on the UFO at all times.

"We have no songs for moments such as these," said the vortigaunt in a voice as guttural as it was suspicious. "What games do these creatures play?"

John gave a shrug of his tried shoulders. He heard the pounding of footsteps behind him and cast a glance back towards the entrance. Jane Kelly barked out orders, motioning for his people to take up position on either side of the gates, atop the makeshift battlements and roofs. _Good woman._ If it hadn't been for that fuckup with Adrian earlier, he would have given her a bit of praise later.

The three of them stood on the gravel road, just under the opened gate. The UFO dipped yet lower, the low thrum of its engine now audible over the sound of wind and the chirping of birds. Strangely, the craft had very little updraft, making John pay as close attention as he could to the vessel's features. _No visible power source or engine; might have some kind of reactor and an … inertia-less drive?_ He was no scientist … but he did report to scientists. He kept his eyes peeled and looked for other obvious features.

 _Purple energy shields at rear of craft. Can't see from here. Horizontal slit facing us, might be some kind of loading ramp. Huh. This craft is easier to describe than what those xen guys had._ John would forever remember Master Sergeant Craig Douglas's explanation to the Colonel about what they had been up against. _Flying sting rays sir, and they're shooting fricking laser beams!_

These were no flying sting rays. If anything, the craft felt oddly disappointing. All the alien invasions until now had possessed panache, imagination. Now the grays had arrived and selected Odessa Cubbage as their spokesperson, because Dr. Breen had been taken. _These guys are last to the race._ John gave Uriah a grin. The vortigaunt gave him a quizzical glance back.

The UFO finally landed, the grass barely bending at its landing. For a few moments, the three of them stood in still silence, waiting for the moment where the bastards would either send out a bunch of musical tones, or declared they came in peace (but shot to kill.) Instead, the horizontal slit opened with a small hiss of pressure, and ramp jutted from the bottom lip like some metal tongue. Heavy boots clanked downward and into the grass. Odessa Cubbage, clad in bulky and angular red armor, a blue beanie still atop his head. He gave them all a wide, if somewhat sheepish smile.

"Ah! I see you made it, Bradford. And Dr. Magnusson, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you in per-"

"What in Fermi's Paradox is going on here?" bellowed Dr. Magnusson, spit flying from his mouth. "Cubbage, what the hell are you wearing?"

"Armor – a gift from the Ethereal Ones," proclaimed Cubbage, throwing open his arms to the sky. "They are visiting all up and down the coast, bringing food, weapons, and shelter to those willing to accept it. It is why I am here – at long last, we have a strong ally to fight back against the Combine's oppression!"

"Do those who weave the Vortessence not count as such?" asked Uriah, eyeing Cubbage with what might have been disdain. "Has our allegiance not proven a backbone to this Resistance's efforts?"

"Of course they have," said Odessa hurriedly, "but your numbers are few, and you do not have an empire at your back. The Elders are both numerous and advanced."

"We can see that." John kept his hands at his sides but made sure his right hand stayed close to his holster. "Who exactly are these Elders? What do they want?"

Cubbage coughed and wiped his mouth – John suspected it was a tick he used when he needed to think of something to say – before meeting his gaze with a warm smile.

"If you come with me, you might be able to converse with one yourself, but alas, I know you have duties to attend to. Suffice to say, they came to Earth looking for something, and in us, they have found it! There just remains the small problem of the Combine occupation and, in particular, the Suppression Field…"

"How much intel you been feeding these guys, Cubbage?" asked John sharply. "You come to our doorstep, they're already aware of the Suppression Field-"

"You should still address me as colonel, Captain," chided Cubbage, a bit of red creeping into his already ruddy cheeks. "They have been surveying the planet from orbit and have drawn plenty of their own conclusions from there. I assure you, they have no military intentions towards the human race. At best, they wish to act as stewards for when the fighting is done."

"And for vortigaunts?" asked Dr. Magnusson. Cubbage gave the doctor the same smile John's Labrador did when they went to the vet.

"Vortigaunts will most certainly have a place in post-Combine society. They are our guests, just as the Elders are."

"What has become of our brother at the NLO?" asked Uriah. "We would hear his thoughts on this matter."

"I didn't think to bring him." Cubbage shrugged. "We can always make a return visit, should you allow it. Now," Cubbage straightened and made a forward motion with his hands. Two men in citizen's jumpsuits descended the ramp, sunglasses over their eyes. Their gait looked odd, somehow, as though the legs were bending just a tad more than they should be. One carried some kind of radio transmitter array in his hands, which clicked and whirred as they descended the steps.

"What is that? Some kind of microwave emitter?" Dr. Magnusson folded his arms. "Explain yourself, young man! I will not be doused with radioactive particles without first consenting to it!"

"No radiation, doctor," said Cubbage, his eyes on the device instead of the people he spoke to. "It's a scanner, looking for a neurological match, or as close to it as possible."

"Very strong activity," said the man holding the device in a low rasp.

"Above. On the battlements. And here, before us." The man pointed the scanner at John. "This one. Seventy percent."

"That's excellent!" Cubbage beamed at John. "You are a very special man, Captain, but we knew that already. And the other?" The strange man pointed the scanner upwards, towards the battlements where some of John's squad hid. "Ah. Captain, who is that young man? With the very close-cropped hair?"

John took one glance backward. "Why the fuck do you want to know?"

"We have found a new base template," muttered the strange man holding the scanner. "We need to take him in."

"You will not touch him." John took a single step forward, swiping his hands to either side of his torso. The two men flanking Cubbage tensed, like snakes ready to strike. Cubbage himself, tutted weakly.

"He will not be harmed, John. We only wish to unlock his full potential – both as a warrior and a human being." Cubbage spread his arms wide again. "We came here bearing gifts, and all we ask is a day or two with the young…" Cubbage furrowed his brow. The smile on his face went from obsequious to … something else. Something John did not like at all.

"Corporal Shephard, is it?" he asked in a voice that sent John's heart thundering.

"Get out."

"We are all on the same side here, Captain," said Cubbage, something very different about him now, like a shadow had passed over his eyes. "The Combine must be overthrown, and we are being handed the tools to do so. If you would just give us a chance, soon you will see things like I do." Cubbage extended an armored hand. John looked down at it, then back up to the man who once dared call himself "Colonel."

"I said get out, you treacherous piece of shit."

Cubbage shrugged irritably. "As you will. But first, we have something for you and yours." He motioned again to the ramp. Something in the shadowy recesses of the ship pushed out a crate. It slid down the ramp and came to a stop in the road. Another crate followed. Then another. Cubbage slid the first forward with hand and boot, and opened it up with a hiss.

"Salvage from our operations so far," he reported stiffly. Magnusson gasped. Dozens of pulse rifles, stacked neatly in rows. Cubbage opened another crate. Body armor folded neatly, somehow reclaimed from the bodies they were supposed to be fused to. A third crate – Overwatch helmets. Something about the way the blue goggles stared up lifelessly at them all made his skin crawl. _Those are never supposed to be empty._

"It is difficult to part the flesh beneath with the Kevlar above, but with the Elder's tools and by the Elder's will, it can be done." Cubbage flashed a smile at the host of people watching from the walls. "We have food as well. Things we do not need, thanks to the Elders … but you still do." Cubbage looked back to John, who gritted his teeth.

"We leave them here, for you to accept or reject as you please. Either way, we are not carrying them home with us." Cubbage gave John a stiff nod before retreating up the right, still flanked by the two men that John now fully realized were not men at all. "We will be back, John, the moment we know you will accept us with open arms. I pray that this day is close at hand."

The ramp retreated, the tongue slithering back into the jaws of hell. Cubbage, clad in crimson, watched them all as the UFO's door hissed shut slowly, his arms folded behind his back, his gaze fixed on, not John, but the figure whom he should not have been able to see, whose name he should not have known. Then the door closed, and the UFO lifted like a feather someone had breathed on. It departed with far less fanfare than it had arrived with. If not for the half dozen heavy red and black crates littered about the road, there would have been no evidence aliens had visited White Forest at all.

John and Magnusson exchanged looks. "Hope I did not overstep my bounds there, doc."

"On the contrary, Captain, I would say you provided an excellent example to the rest of the staff." He turned to the battlements, hands on his hips. "You see that, everyone? That is how we should treat false friends and empty promises!"

"Does the Magnusson wish to destroy the crates?" asked Uriah, prompting the doctor to sigh.

"No, Uriah, we're defiant but we are also desperate. We will scan all of it and make use of whatever we can. I'm not going to condemn the base to reduced rations when we are left meals on our doorstep."

It felt a bit duplicitous, but John saw no reason to argue with Magnusson. There was a war on, after all, and tossing the contents of the crates would have been pointless.

"What I want," said Magnusson, pounding a fist into his hand, "is to finally get Kleiner off his physics-defiant boondoggle and to finally help me tap into that old Lambda satellite that Freeman launched for still-nebulous reasons! It's just been sitting up there, collecting space dust, and now we might be able to use it as a spyglass on our new friends in orbit!"

"Does the Magnusson also wish to launch the White Forest satellite?"

"Want to? Certainly. Will he? Only if he were certain there was not a single active Citadel left on the planet." Magnusson shook his head. "Who knows? Maybe we will get our chance." He gave one last look back to John, then a rare nod of real appreciation. "Well. Enough spectacle. All right everyone! Yes, _you_ , the gawkers and layabouts. Party's over – someone help me with these crates."

John helped tug in the crate of helmets with Uriah, leaving a small trail in the gravel where it dragged. His squad greeted him at the entrance, crowing around the helmets with low whistles.

"What the hell was that about, Captain?"

"Were they telling the truth? Is there gonna be a Resistance civil war?"

"Captain," began Adrian, and John stopped to meet his gaze. _He looks so young._ "Captain, what did they want with me?"

John froze, not sure what to say. For a moment, he looked away. Then, slowly, deliberately, he grabbed Adrian's shoulder and squeezed.

"They can't have you," said John. "They're not taking you from us again."


	14. Liberté, égalité, fraternité

Even when Annette Durand shut her eyes tight, she could still see. _I need never be afraid of the dark again._ Every sound came in amplified – the drop of a pin tingled in her ear longer and louder than it would have, sounding like a Euro coin instead of a thin strip of metal. The deep greens and purples of the Ethereal's vessel had gone from the watered-down hues perceived by her old eyes, to the almost shimmering shades before her now. Shades that she could still see even with her eyes shut.

Her mind reached out. Speaker Odessa Cubbage reached back from the bridge, but his own thoughts remained guarded behind a resolute shield – she would have to exert effort to feel as he felt, and there was no reason to intrude. Their fingers traced each other and then parted, Annette seeking other consciousnesses.

The sectoids remained furtive and suspicious, climbing over her thought only once it was clear that it was her and not one of the Elders. Jealousy seeped in through the holes between the minds. Jealousy at her strength, at the Elder's love, and at the homeworld humanity still clung to, however barely. Annette sent out a tendril of sympathy to the sectoids, but this brought only confusion. They scarcely recognized the sentiment, and none felt grateful for it. Annette turned away.

The alien soldiers, "mutons," grunted as they felt her mind on theirs. Their brains felt like well-trodden ground, long-used to receiving orders in as direct a manner as possible. They, at least, gave Annette what she felt was her due. Awe. Awe and compliance. They would never obey her command over an Elder's, but if she bid one of them to leap out the UFO while it floated through the air, it would not question her motives or judgment for a second. Such was their loyalty. Such was their obedience.

Of course, such thoughts were beneath Annette. These were the loyal warriors of the ADVENT who would serve as their bulwark and backbone in the battles to come. Humanity had a long way to go before it could reach even their level, and from what she was given to understand very few humans possessed anything close to her own capability. _So, it will be a long and slow journey._ She felt fortunate to have such companions at her side. She commended the mutons on their valor. They pounded their chests and roared, honored.

Then there was the Elder.

"You might be the New One," murmured the Elder, fingers scratching against the throne, sending shivers up Annette's spine at the sound … a sound which carried all the way from the other side of the vessel, over the hum of the reactor, and the ragged breathing of the mutons. "The journey is long, but it nears its end. Perhaps you will be the one to stand ascendant as the darkness approaches."

"You fear something more than the Combine," replied Annette. The Elder's mind was an iron cage; Annette was strong, yes, but her strength came from nature, not mastery. The Elder possessed both and wielded its psionics with an ease Annette envied. Yet Annette could still see between the slats of the cage. Inside, the Elder was running, running from something Annette could not see entirely. _Just its breath._ Each exhalation came out icy cold.

"We do not fear these Harvesters." The Elder seemed amused at the notion. "They are beings of the material and can only obliterate mind and body. We are not only flesh and bone, child. Listen. Feel for that other, that greater thing. The threads that bind us."

"The Vortessence?" asked Annette, remembering Sparky's words. The Elder issued forth a bark of mental laughter.

"To name a thing is to limit it. Something once defined has difficulty stepping beyond the boundaries of its title. It has no words. Feel beyond the thoughts and fear. Listen for the one-in-all."

Annette, not sure what to do, tried to look at the whole ship. A cacophony of jabber assaulted her mind's eye, and she almost winced at the noise. _Narrow it down._ She focused on the closest thing, the thing she understood best. Her own body, flesh and bone, yes, electrical impulses carried to and fro, up and down the nerves, making jumps over the synapses…

With each breath her blood roared louder, and her thoughts focused more and more on how she was thinking, much like the time her mother had tried to teach her yoga and meditation techniques. It had not worked then, and it did not seem to be working now. Her mind raced faster and faster, seeking for something that was not there, trying to remain calm as the frustration only mounted, making her heart pulse and squeeze just a tad faster … what would her mother have thought?

There. A tendril, luminescent emerald, surging forth from that hidden part of her brain that only the Elders had recognized the importance of. She thought of her mother again, and the thread thickened, reaching out for something, for someone, that Annette knew did not exist anymore. _Where is it reaching? To who? Is my mother…?_

Annette thought of others – school friends she had seen trampled beneath the feet of synths in their blitz over France. Family long dead, their faces crossed off the old pictures with a black marker. Friends and comrades in arms, buried in unmarked plots that stretched across all of Europe. With each thought, another thread appeared alongside the first, shining. They reached, all of them, up and out, to somewhere Annette could not reach, that even only now she could begin to glimpse…

"These links can be made with the living," said the Elder, his voice as loud and clear as if he floated beside her. "But you see, don't you? The Combine can only offer a mechanical death, a subversion of the body's processes. And we are more than that. Something persists, even once life ebbs."

The vortigaunts had said something similar in the past, but always in a way that indicated it applied more to them than humanity. _Our vortal inputs were impaired._ Well, now they were being unimpaired, for those with a lucky batch of genetics. Still, her thoughts turned to Sparky, whom she had not seen for a few days now. _I hope he is all right._

Another tendril, green like the others. But this one did not extend up and away, but instead down, where it … _hooked on._

Something snagged the other side of Annette's probe and grabbed hold for dear life. _Treachery! Infamy! A perversion of Vortessence!_ Annette gasped, lungs desperate to expand with air, but her throat locked tight. Something bubbled within a vat while pipes steamed overhead. Energy flowed in and around her, but she had no control over it. An Elder looked on through the tube she floated inside, gesturing with one of its four arms. Annette screamed.

 _A different death, a new death, a lasting death! We are undone and remade! They will cut our cords!_

"That is enough," murmured the Elder. The tendril fell away to the ground and faded into nothing. "Breathe."

Annette sucked in a deep and wracking breath, then started coughing. She fell to all fours, her eyes finally opening. The world looked so much duller and so motionless through human pupils. Her stomach heaved as her coughing worsened, making her gag. Forgetting herself for a moment, she spat a glob of something sticky on the UFO's floor. Then she gagged again, her back arching. _Damn this … I'm still only human._

Agony lingered in the back of her mind, but it was not her agony. The aftershock of … whatever she had touched, remained even after the coughing subsided. She wiped the drool from her mouth and stood unsteadily, brushing her sweat-slicked hair from her eyes. The Elder floated over her, arms tucked into its crimson robes, its masked face fixed on hers.

"Did you kill him?" asked Annette, voice hoarse.

"No. The vortigaunt is alive and in no physical pain." Annette pursed her lips at this. Something about the specificity of the wording.

"But I felt his pain, Elder," said Annette, a low anger beginning to curdle in the regions of her stomach. "I feel it still."

"It is the pain of indignity, of no longer being secure in one's place as the foremost psionic authority on the planet." The Elder's words came blunt and hard, like tombstones dropped from an airplane. "Long have they locked your potential from you, out of fear what they might create. Long have they sought to subtly throttle and manipulate, that they might wrest control of civilization out of the ashes of the Harvester's ruin."

"I don't believe it." Annette folded her arms. But she could not deny just a kernel of doubt nestling somewhere in the recesses of her mind. "I … we've fought alongside each other for so long."

"The callousness of these Harvesters forces otherwise unthinkable alliances." One of the Elder's arms swept out. A long-fingered hand made a dismissive swipe through the air at a leisurely pace. "Do you consider them heroes for electing to ally with humanity? What would have been their alternative? By the End War's close, you had already slaughtered many of them."

"Their … their powers have kept our facilities running, defended our lives."

"Powers that you know now they could have shared." The Elder's hand disappeared back beneath the robe. "How did these vortal warriors react as we reached out with the hand of friendship? With suspicion and dismay. Their own private agenda became threatened. Even now they tremble in fear and anger, seek to reconvene with the dark powers they make bargains with."

A green tendril reached forth from the Elder, but it did not point in any direction. It instead just _burrowed_ in place, going somewhere Annette could not see. She shivered. The air suddenly felt cold, when before the UFO had been warm and welcoming. She swore she heard someone sigh from just behind her shoulder.

Then the tendril died, and the Elder One hung his head.

"Apologies. But one errant thought can lead us estray. Keep a careful hold on your mind. Forces unseen are watching. One day soon, you will understand why we hold the Harvesters in disdain. They can visit only a lesser destruction."

Annette glanced behind her. A thin man, pupils slitted, returned her gaze with cold interest. It inclined its head in a gesture of unnatural respect.

"You are hurting him, though," said Annette. "The vortigaunts … we owe them so much."

"They owe you more. Particularly the one they call "Freeman.""

The lights flickered. Annette heard the rustle of cloth on cloth, another sigh, this time clearly that of a man. Yet only the thin man (who, frankly, was no man at all) stood there, his gaze now fixed on the Elder with an unearthly intentness.

"Yes. We have heard of this Freeman. We hope to hear more of him, of what he has accomplished, of when he will return. The vortigaunts owe their freedom to him."

"We all do, sort of," replied Annette. "He killed the Nihilanth, ended the Black Mesa Incident. He stopped the first alien invasion."

"But was absent for the second." The Elder looked down on Annette, expression and intentions inscrutable. "Perhaps he might be our New One. Perhaps, in the end, all of us will owe our freedom to him, this Opener of the Way." The Elder turned away, mask cast downward. "…but at what price?"

"Rise and shine, ladies and gentlemen!" proclaimed Cubbage, peeking his head from around the corner. "I have been informed that the razor train has just left the station. It is time we begin _really_ giving the Universal Union a piece of our minds." He winked at Annette. "And I do mean that quite … literally."

"The Harvesters desire total control of this planet's resources." The Elder floated towards Odessa, heading for the bridge. "We will choke them of their prize. They will soon understand the limitations of their simplistic vision." The Elder crooked one long finger to Annette as he ascended. "Come, child. Bear witness to the beginning of your species' liberation. It is time to test our combined strength."

Cubbage smiled and gestured for Annette to join him. She did, still not quite feeling any affection for the man. He was not weak, not in the way the other people at NLO were, but his character … was it possible to be both powerful and cowardly? That had to be the height of cowardice, surely. To be capable and yet afraid. If anything, Odessa's mental prowess just made him more pathetic – all that power, yet he would never use it against a worthy foe.

Yet perhaps Annette was wrong. She strode side by side, if not quite arm in arm, with the man. They stood together on the bridge, looking down at the railroad below, one end stretching into a dark tunnel, an energy shield humming at its entrance. Two sectoids navigated the controls, all of which had been adjusted downwards to meet their limited stature. The Elder floated above them, his intentions hanging in the air like lengths of chain. _A sharp purpose. A tested patience._

"Our fleet remains in orbit. The larger vessels are threatened by their Citadels." The Elder paused for a moment. "But we will risk one. Child, you will descend with the others once the train is halted. Quiet the resistance. We will bring the passengers to safety."

"On this ship?" asked Annette, glancing at the close ceiling and walls.

"No, child. You will see." The Elder lifted a palm to the heavens. "Go forth and test your new gift. Our enemies have stripped themselves of their capacity for fear. They will fling themselves before you. Demonstrate the foolishness of this approach."

Annette grinned. Yes, she had the power to make people see things that were not there, play with their eyes and their hearts … but she also had the power to manipulate flesh, to set things aflame. _And that is something the Combine will learn to respect._ She glanced to Cubbage, a smile still playing about her face.

"Coming with me, Colonel?"

"Erm, no," replied Cubbage, making the smile drop from Annette's face. "I lack your strength, Annette. I am their Speaker, not their, um, New One. My role is in the rear, for the moment. Elder's decree."

"Right," said Annette looking away from the coward and his stupid mustache. "The Elder's will be done."

Below, a familiar roar echoed from the tunnel below, making a chill run down Annette's spine. _But I need not be afraid of that sound ever again. There is so little to be afraid of, now. I am filled with the Elder's light…_

The steel best ripped free from the tunnel with a rush of air, its eye-watering speed even more apparent from the aerial angle. A sectoid gurgled something in its own tongue. Annette's perspective shifted as the UFO went from stationary to suddenly zipping alongside the train, all without making her feet shift at all. The sectoid gurgled again. Its brother made a sound that almost resembled a laugh.

Green light flashed from somewhere off to their side. The razor train's smooth, featureless driver's cabin burst into green and orange flame. The entire vessel screamed as the cabins behind began to slow beneath the sudden involuntary brakes. The driver's cabin remained on the tracks, its wheels untouched by the plasma blast, but at a greatly reduced pace. For a minute, they watched the slow-motion death of the train's momentum until, finally it came to a halt with a hiss of released pressure. At its stilling, the Elder's voice boomed within the entire craft.

"Descend. Descend and visit destruction."

Annette leapt to the rear of the craft. She rounded the curvature of the halls and stopped only to pry her soon-to-be-defunct pulse rifle from a weapon's rack. It looked so small next to the muton's plasma rifles. They pulled their own weapons free with a grunt, pounding their gun on the side once it was secure in their arms. Three of them stood on either side of Annette, dwarfing her stature … but not her being. _They know. To them, I am a colossus!_

Annette sprinted forward to the shimmering purple energy of the craft. Her feet flew free of the UFO's confines, only for a purple beam to fly out and capture her. With a burst of light, it flung her to the ground, yet her body did not shatter on impact. She landed with the grace of a panther, one hand on the ground, another gripping her rifle. The train extended before her, an uncoiled steel snake. Already, Combine radio chatter filled the air. Annette reached out … and gasped.

 _This is what it feels like._ It was like biting into what you thought was an orange, ripe and juicy, only to find the insides empty. There was nothing – _nothing –_ left in these soldiers. When she reached for Odessa, assuming he let her in, she could feel his anxieties, his doubts, and of course, that overriding impulse for self-preservation. The sectoids were simple, yes, but even they had ambitions. And they, too, were cowards.

The mutons? Dumb muscle, certainly, but brains drove them. Pack loyalty bound them. Their arms were thick with sinew and tattoos, remnants of tribes many of them no longer knew the name of. Were they simple? Certainly. But, given time, she would be able to distinguish them, perhaps even give them names, if they wanted any.

The Overwatch … an empty silence only interrupted by the staccato of a pre-recorded order, flashing across the brain like a neon "Open" sign. Just pre-destined movement, dictated by inflexible wire. _And the Elder believes this kind of death is not the worst?_ Well, Annette was technically forced to agree simply due to the existence of stalkers, but – _oh God. God, merciful God, please don't let this be a stalker car._

Her consciousness reached out tentatively, hoping against hope it would not brush against those tortured beings. Instead it found … people. People in the dark, afraid, suspecting that the worst had already come to pass, but now hoping that rescue was at hand. Annette wished she could teach their hands, each of them, meet their gaze and let them know everything would be all right. _I am going to give myself that chance. I am ready._

"Allons-y!" screamed Annette. Mutons fell to earth behind her like angry meteors. They pounded their chests, each thud punctuated with a guttural roar.

The first Overwatch soldier appeared at the top of the closest carriage, head popping up as he apparently climbed a ladder from the other side. Annette reached out and _pushed_ , looking for what little flesh remained. Kevlar and metal ripped open in a great gash as the soldier's left leg came apart at the thigh, unleashing a spray of blood. He cried out as he fell atop the roof before rolling off it, falling about eight feet on to the gravel of the railroad below, leaving his severed leg behind.

"Overwatch, sector is not controlled."

"Confirmed, designate target as Shadow-One."

"Confirmed, Razor Nine-One sweeping in."

"Fix on Shadow-One and three biotics, also designate as Shadow; range thirty, bearing twelve. Go sharp!"

Annette darted to the closest coupling between rail cars. Sure enough, a hail of gunfire peppered her footsteps, making her heart sing. _Yes, here we go!_

The mutons held their ground and returned fire. Another rush of heat and light heralded yet another carriage catching fire. _Empty, that one._ Annette wiped her brow.

"Razor Team be advised, biotics are enacting a febrile response. Direct the stimulus away from the train."

Annette slipped around the other side of the train. Three soldiers stopped and immediately readied weapons. Annette hastily backpedaled the way she came, knowing the soldiers would be reaching for their grenades. She felt for the heat, the contained pressure of the explosives…

"Razor Three, extractor away, sharp zone." Annette suppressed a giggle. She dug in, sending a shard of heat and pressure into the pin. The bang came immediately. Under it, the death screams of the Combine Overwatch.

"Three duties vacated, harden that position!"

"Overwatch, sector is not controlled. Requesting reserve activation."

"Overwatch, aerial contagion detected. Recommend immediate MCM in this zone."

Annette headed back around the side of the train, pulse rifle in her arms. _Useless thing. Just so much metal._ Gunfire and plasma blasts rattled from the other side of the train, and errant bolts of green light vanished into nearby clouds with every miss.

"They are calling for their Citadel," whispered the Elder's voice. "The process must accelerate. Bear witness, child. Look to the skies above."

Annette paused, looking up. Something small and dark hung in the air, well beyond the cloud layer. It grew larger with every passing second. And this one did not move with the silence of the Elder's UFO. It announced its arrival with a shriek, building like a tea kettle. Annette watched with tears in her eyes as she realized that the Elder's spoke the truth about the fleet in orbit.

A ship, hundreds of feet long, its exterior long and angular instead of circular, like something mankind might build had it ever truly reached the space age. Its size extended on the z-axis as well; as it drew nearer, it became clear that it looked at least two stories tall, ladders running along the outside to assist the crew with movement. The vessel, dull purple in coloration, drew alongside the train with a howl. Its sudden halt as it landed in the gray wastes felt unnatural to Annette's eyes and ears. _Yet here they are. Our saviors._

"Outbreak, outbreak, out- argh!"

The final soldier fell to a blast of plasma energy. Annette felt what was left of his mind switch out like a broken lightbulb, the ember fading all too quickly. She rejoined her bloodied companions, green fluid leaking from their shoulders and chests. Yet they kept their heads unbowed. _They will wear these scars with pride._

The rear of the craft opened. More mutons rushed out, none of them carrying weapons. They grunted, pointing to different cars. One bade Annette to follow.

Metal containers lay racked inside each car, each one carrying a small and scared mind. The mutons forced the doors open and then reached inside, pink muscles bulging. With a cry, they wrenched each container free, one by one, prompting yelps from the interior of the prison.

"Calm them, child," urged the Elder. "You are both shield and sword. The Ethereal Ones will hold them close. Let them know this."

Wishing she could see their faces in person, Annette kneeled in the gravel. _The worst is over. You are saved. You are destined for the stars now, not Nova Prospekt. You are in good hands._ She sent warmth. She sent love, the same love she felt for all the weak and wounded. _You will be healed. You will be made strong._

The citizens quieted within their cages. None of them fully understood what was going on, no, but they had heard the deaths of the Overwatch outside. They had felt the train that would have carried them to their doom burn and halt. Now they heard her voice, not with their ears, true, but still recognizably human. Annette let her hand drift over one of the containers as the mutons dragged it by. She knew that a hand pressed back.

From above, the Ethereal drifted from his UFO to a graceful landing. The UFO promptly vanished into the sky with a soft hum, rising up, up, and up out of sight. _Merde, those things go fast._ The Elder now floated before her, two visible hands outstretched.

"Child, my child, you have done well. In time, your strength will grow, grow to perhaps even match the Ethereal Ones … and not as we are now. As we were, once." The Elder watched the mutons slide the metal tubes across the dirt and up the ramp of the larger craft. "Their destination is ours; the home fleet. It is time you bore full witness to the power we bring to bear."

The Elder followed the line of mutons and rescued humans to the craft. Annette followed, knowing her place, wondering what the Elder meant. _As they were? Were they stronger, once? What prompted this voyage fantastique?_

Inside the ship, crates lay stacked high in shelves. Yellow material glowed inside metal cylinders that rotated in place. Annette detected no psionic energy from them, but she did feel strangely drawn to the chiming sounds they made. And now, in the empty spaces between the existing cargo, the mutons erected the citizen's containers, and set about trying to open them by hand.

Behind, the last of the containers scraped its way up the ramp, which began to close. The floor rumbled. Soon … soon Annette would see the stars as no human had in so long. _Magnifique._

Something knocked around to her right, making a crate jump from side to side. Annette took a step back, nervous. She reached out, and something _hungry,_ something cold and ravenous stared back at her. The crate rocked a little more. _It knows. It wants me._

Lengthy fingers clasped around Annette's shoulder. A chill settled down her spine.

"Fear not, child," said the Elder, its voice full of ugly promise. "Those are not meant for you."


	15. Forgivable Tardiness

The cloud whirled by overhead, the shadows dancing and deepening as day turned to night turned to day. Trees budded, sprouted leaves, and then the leaves withered and drifted away, dead and brown. In seven hours, all the effort in the world went to waste, until … well.

Gordon Freeman waited for a train. He did not know it yet, but he stood still and silent atop the platform, the clanking of wheels on rails just at the edge of his hearing. From above, He looked down on Freeman, expressionless. Gordon's thoughts were obvious – the man waited, dreaming, the horrors he had witnessed temporarily forgotten. But this other, his handler … he only straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and … shine."

This handler wore a blue suit and red tie, a metallic grey briefcase gripped in his thin fingers. His eyes shone with a green people would remember, even if they forgot the rest of his face. Gordon Freeman's eyes possessed a similar emerald sheen, although his goatee and glasses made him more distinguishable than this G-Man.

Gordon's eyes were already open. Some remnant of consciousness still sparked deep down. Yet, as the G-Man spoke, he finally … woke up. His eyes moved back and forth as his lips thinned into a worried frown. But Gordon Freeman did not speak. This was hardly unusual.

"I do apologize for the wait, Mr. Freeman, but recent matters have required an … adjustment of our schedule." The G-Man's voice possessed an odd cantor, speeding and slowing at random like a drunk driver, holding on a "s" at one moment, before jumping through "adjustment" in a blur of syllables. Gordon shook his pounding head. He could see the G-Man's face and torso, but also something else as the G-Man grew transparent and, confusingly, remained in sight.

Behind the apparition, the Anomalous Materials test chamber ran its final scan, the anti-mass spectrometer blazing in lurid gold. Gordon looked down at the place that had turned his life to hell with a mixture of disgust and regret. The G-Man inclined his head.

"The hour drew near, but hitherto unforeseen circumstances forced us to … reconsider where you would be most needed, Mr. Freeman." The G-Man straightened his tie. The test chamber behind him faded to the frozen image of a strange angular train in flames, smoke rising from the passenger cars in great plumes. "Of course, you are hardly unaccustomed to running a little late to work, hm?"

If Gordon took this as a slight, he gave no sign of it. The train changed to the rolling waves of the ocean, speeding by under them at the speed of sound. But Gordon could not hear the water or smell the salt. It was little more than a slide on a projector, running at the behest of the man operating it. The G-Man's smile widened.

"I must duly claim responsibility for your tardiness, Mr. Freeman, and pray that those you must serve understand your absence. In time, all will become clear. In time."

The ocean view shifted upwards. The air distorted, making Gordon grit his teeth. It was like looking up and seeing a heat wave rising from the tarmac – common enough at Black Mesa. But this wave stretched in all directions and made his eyes water – and the source remained unclear. Some enormous source of energy lay before him, floating over the seas … yet he could not see it. But he heard it, just as his vision began to narrow out and darken – a great roar punctuated by a hoarse whisper.

 _He is here._

"In the meantime, Mr. Freeman," said the G-Man, putting a strange emphasis on _time_ , "you have a train to catch. Breathe deep. Feel the sunlight on your face."

Light edged its way into Gordon's vision. He stood aboard a train, its windows cracked and dirty, bullet holes puncturing them in several places. Grubby men and women in dirty blue jumpsuits sat slumped on the filthy seats, luggage planted securely in their laps or at their feet. The G-Man began to fade into the distance, the projector reaching the end of its presentation. After a moment, he faded away entirely. And Dr. Gordon Freeman, employee of the Black Mesa Anomalous Materials Lab, veteran of the Black Mesa incident, came to as his vision flashed white.

Gordon breathed heavily, not sure whether these strange and grubby people would notice his entrance. Not a one of them looked up. The rails beneath the train squeaked and clanked as the vehicle continued its passage. Gordon looked to his left. A cliff greeted his sight, a strip of barriers running at its edge. _A highway._ He looked to his right. The sun, beginning to set, casting a resplendent reflection over the glimmering waves of the ocean. _I am … free?_

Gordon Freeman breathed out, knowing that, whatever else, he stood on Earth once again. Then, heart thudding, he knew that the next stage meant figuring out exactly where on Earth was "here." There were plenty of places he could think of he would rather not be. Black Mesa was of course at the forefront, but there were others. Albuquerque. Afghanistan. Belgium. Gordon Freeman glanced back out over the ocean. _Can't be Belgium. Thank God._

And judging by the occasional alpine tree dotting the nearby cliffs, as well as the temperature, it was unlikely to be the other two places. So, if nothing else, Gordon Freeman had to conclude he was in a better place. He took a hesitant step forward. A bearded black man, leaning against the wall next to the train doors, spared him a tired glance.

"Didn't see you get on," he mumbled, before resuming staring at nothing. Gordon Freeman shrugged. _No, I'm sure you didn't._ He looked the man up and down. _Am I on some kind of prison transport?_ A white label ran between the man's shoulders, a row of numbers and letters stretching across it. The threadbare knees of his jeans barely kept his pants past his shins up, and dirt and food stains dotted his arms and torso. Looking around the train carriage, the others looked little better.

A woman shivered to herself, teeth chattering, thin arms crossed across her chest. Her stringy blonde hair came up in a ragged ponytail that ran down her back. Her cheeks clung close enough to her face to look sunken, and she pointedly refused eye contact with anyone else in the train.

Another man sat in the corner, practically slumped over a suitcase that did not close completely. Periodically he would try to push the contents of the bag down and run the zipper through, but it would not budge. He paid no one else any mind.

 _Co-ed prison with lax security?_ Something was not right. Well, many things were not right. At times like these, it made sense to check the fundamentals. Gordon sucked in a short breath and hopped in place. He came down with a thud, just as he should have. _Not Xen._ The black man by the door glanced back at him.

"Do you mind?" he asked, his heart plainly not really in it. No one else looked up at Gordon. Gordon shrugged again and sat down to think. The gentleman shrugged and resumed staring out over the sea.

Stuck on a train. Late for work. Last time this had happened, he had wondered how the day could have gotten worse. The answer to that question had been both unbelievable and incredibly unwelcome. Gordon took care not to ask it here.

Gordon also knew better to ask his fellow passengers where they were all going and why. They spoke English (a good sign) but were plainly not in the best mental or physical health – even the man by the door had heavy lids under his eyes. _Have to wait for it. The situation should make itself clear. If only I didn't feel so naked. Wait…_

Gordon looked down at himself. A wrinkled blue shirt, torn in places, draped over his chest. Jeans, scratchy and a little tight, ran over his muscled legs. And, almost as an insult, his shoelaces were untied. Whoever that specter had been, he had really been thorough in making sure Gordon was dressed the part as a beaten-down human being railroaded to nowhere. Sighing, Gordon tied his shoelaces. _Thought he said I had earned the suit?_

Of course, as his mother would have pointed out, Gordon had been foolish to trust a stranger, even one who could control space and time. _No, especially. Who knows what he has gotten away with since …_ Gordon's eyes widened. _Exactly how late for work am I?_

"Oh, for crying out loud," murmured the man by the door, neck craning against the window. "Grab on to something."

The train braked without warning, making Gordon start. _Hardly like the IVB back in Innsbruck._ He regained his balance easily and waited, hands on knees, for the train to come to a complete halt. The other two passengers looked up anxiously to the door.

"What do they want?" asked the woman, voice cracking slightly. "Did we hit another garg?"

"Looks like another damn security checkpoint," spat the man by the door. "Leave your luggage here if you want to keep it."

"Don't touch my stuff," mumbled the man in the corner, hurriedly standing and placing his still-open suitcase on top of his seat. "Don't touch my stuff, don't touch my stuff."

"Civil Protection?" asked the woman.

"Nah. Overwatch." The woman slumped in her seat, hands shaking.

"Can't do Overwatch today. Don't want to. Do you think they'll let me stay in here?"

"What do you think?" asked the man by the door derisively. "Come on." The woman stood, her knees knocking against each other. Gordon felt a pang of pity for the girl, even if he could not quite tell what was going on. Her fear felt quite palpable. The train finally lurched to a stop. The doors screeched open. The man by the door stretched and gave Gordon a backwards glance.

"Get a move on, buddy. You don't wanna keep them waiting."

Gordon, trusting this train guru's sage wisdom, stood up and followed his fellow three passengers down the steps and into the gravel. A stretch of beach lay below them, fallen tree branches dotting its still sands. The air felt damp with salt. Still, Gordon breathed it in gratefully.

Other passengers jumped down from their respective cars into the gravel with a crunch. At the forefront of the train, someone in black and white uniform, wearing a gas mask of all things, waved them all forward. Up ahead, strange sheltered towers rose on either side of the railroad, and men with guns at their shoulders waited for the passengers to proceed towards them. _Don't like this. Could be bad. Are they checking for me?_

Was this all a ploy to hand him back to the government? Gordon had so many questions, but this was hardly the time to ask any of them. All he could do was step forward and pray that whatever plan that bastard Time Lord had in place involved his survival. _He went to a hell of a lot of effort to get me out of Xen, however he managed that. And freeze me in time, however he managed that. And send me here, however he managed that._ Many questions.

One man, rail thin with slicked back hair, leapt nimbly down from his carriage. As Gordon passed by, the man made eye contact, and then he gave a queer smile.

"You – friend," he said stepping forward, breaking up the line. The red-haired woman behind Gordon stopped in apparent shock, not quite sure what she was seeing. "Pardon, friend, but might I know your name?"

"Word to the wise," said the woman, stepping in and glancing at both of them, "keep it to yourself. This isn't the time."

The thin man smiled in a way that made both Gordon and the interloper step back. Gordon had only seen smile like that before on Shark Week.

"Can't you see that he is special?" asked the thin man quietly. The woman looked at him as if he were mad. "No … no, of course not." The man gave a swift jerk of his head to the line of soldiers in the distance. Something about the way it bent made the hair on the back of Gordon's neck prickle. "Tch. They're waiting for you, friend. At the checkpoint."

Gordon shrugged and continued past the weirdo, who fell in after the red-haired woman, who noticeably sped up to give him a berth.

As the line reached the head of the train, Gordon got a better look at the man who might be their conductor. He wore a white gas mask, obscuring his features, but the broadness of his shoulders, and the way he puffed his skinny chest out revealed that he, at the very least, was a male specimen. He wore a pistol at his hip, and his right hand never strayed far from the holster. Gordon spared the man a single glance, and he immediately took a threatening step forward.

"Keep moving." The voice was so heavily vocoded to sound almost completely mechanical, but at least Gordon had not been recognized. Gordon obeyed the conductor's command and followed his shivering compatriots to the two towers ahead.

Up close, Gordon could hear the tower shelters flapping in the stiff sea breeze. The towers themselves appeared constructed of some kind of dark blue steel, with a yellow spiraling symbol of some kind adorning their side. A cluster of buildings, previously unviewable, huddled together to the left of the rail line. Heavy electrical cables stretched from the leftmost tower to the buildings below, but Gordon could not tell whether it was drawing power or sending it. To their right, the slope to the side of the railroad gave way to the beach, a small paved road providing a path downward. Strangely and somewhat inexplicably, a blue steel obelisk about ten feet high sat at the top of the drive, a pillar in its center periodically coming up and slamming back down, sending up a shockwave each time. Even from here, Gordon could feel the vibration beneath his feet, and hear the muffled thud.

Whatever this thrumming machine was would have to wait, however. He was close enough now to see this Overwatch firsthand.

 _More gas masks._ Gordon took some small relief that they were clearly not HECU – hell, from what he could see, they didn't even look American. The soldiers stood at a uniform height, unfamiliar lengthy rifles clutched in their gloved hands. They were covered, head to toe, in a thick gray substance that might have been Kevlar, while their eyes remained hidden behind thick blue goggles. One of these soldiers, weapon dangling from a strap over his (well, it might have been her – with armor that thick and the soldiers so identical it might have been an all-female unit for all he knew) shoulder, carried a small humming device that resembled the product of an unholy union between a tuning fork and a metal detector. Gordon watched it blankly, hoping this was not some kind of Freeman detector. The soldier knelt down as he ran the object up and down the length of the train guru's body.

"You're clean. Move back." The soldier made a dismissive gesture to the train guru, who sighed and made an about face. He seemed a good deal in more of a hurry to get back in the train than he had getting out of it. "Next forward."

The blonde woman, knees still quaking, stepped forward, almost tripping as she reached the soldier. The gas-masked scanner reached out with his device.

"Hold still." The soldier swept across her face, across her arms, then down a pants leg. The device gave a shrill beep.

"Pathogen detected. Prep antiseptic."

"What?" asked the woman, voice shrill, hair whipping back and forth as she turned to see half a dozen guns trained on her. "What are you talking about, I didn't-"

Her building terror came to an abrupt end as the scanner soldier brandished his rifle. With a single violent jerk, he jammed the stock of the weapon into the back of the woman's head. With a wet thud, she went down, moaning.

"Check history and registration. Notify Prospekt dispatch for pickup."

No one in line looked at the woman. They found interest in passing clouds, the tranquil waters, the shelters flapping in the breeze. Everyone in line except Gordon. He stared at the woman's unconscious body as two soldiers carted her off, a low drone in his ears, punctuated by a single sentence.

 _Rescue at last, thank God you're here…_

Gordon's gaze lingered on the strange guns the soldiers carried. One of the gas masks returned his gaze without apparent rancor or interest. The scanner, the butt of his rifle now coated in a small amount of dripping blood and some loose blonde strands, slung his weapon back over his shoulder before pulling his scanner from his belt. He looked back to his shiftless line of passengers.

"Next forward." The suitcase man stepped forward, sucking on both his cheeks in anxiety. But the tuning fork thing passed by his body without incident, and he practically skipped his way back to the train. That left Gordon, stepping forward in unfamiliar shoes in an unfamiliar land, faced with an unfamiliar foe.

"Arms out. Hold still." Gordon complied, but he kept his eyes on the soldier's befouled gun the whole time. No sooner had the tuning fork run across its face, it gave a shrill beep. The soldier stared at it for a moment, as if uncomprehending.

"Uh, registration error. No presence in database."

"Age parameters render that improbable," another soldier chimed in, sounding indistinguishable from the first. "Check equipment."

"Nominal wear. Equipment functional. Uh, running bypass and checking for pathogens." Gordon, sweating a little, stood there with his arms out, wondering every second if the back of his skull were about to get caved in. The tuning fork passed down his arms and chest without incident. It swept down his pants legs no problem. The soldier stood up, posture stiff, before bringing a hand to the side of his helmeted head.

"No pathogen detected. No registration found. Overwatch, we have a possible miscount. Recommend temporary detainment and interrogation of train's supervising Civil Protection officer." The soldier looked back to Gordon, then pointed with his free hand to the base of the tower. "Stand there. Wait for further instructions."

Gordon half-expected that the soldier would include an addendum like, "Run and we will shoot you," but that seemed to be an obvious unspoken guarantee. Gordon stepped over there gingerly and waited, eyes still on the rifles of his captors. The red-haired woman stepped forward, pointedly not looking at Gordon. The tuning fork thing passed over her without incident. She left without a backward glance.

Meanwhile, one of the soldiers brought out the train conductor, the "supervisor" of the passengers. His chest no longer looked quite so puffed out, and his demeanor verged on the plaintive.

"No presence on registry. Did you check all passengers?"

"Checked and double-checked," replied the conductor, his vocoder a slightly higher pitch than the soldiers. Gordon also detected something else that he possessed that the soldier's lacked – inflection: a trace of emotion, even if it was cold. "All cleared with dispatch – bound for City 17 per relocation protocol."

"Check with dispatch," said one of the soldiers, and another jogged off towards the buildings. "Incompetence is potential conspiracy. You saw all passengers board this train?" The conductor looked towards Gordon. Behind him, the thin man stepped forward, a smile playing about his pale lips. Gordon realized somehow, even through the lens of the mask, that the conductor had just come to a chilling realization: he had not seen Gordon board the train. _We're both in the barrel today, buddy._

"Hold out your arms," said the scanning soldier, heedless of the ensuing drama. The conductor, still silent, finally shook his head.

"Parasite. Must have made a stealthy entry. I did not see him board."

The soldier's head snapped to Gordon. The scanner gave a shrill beep.

"No registry, pathogens-"

"Detected, yes. But by now, the coordinates are locked." The thin man looked to Gordon, still smiling. "Wait for it."

"Ready weapons, prepare antibiotics."

"I assure you," said the thin man, turning to the soldiers, "they are already on their way." Then, the man _leapt_ straight up, about fifteen. Rifle reports went off all around Gordon, who flung himself to the ground. The shots went wide as the _being_ landed nimbly atop the tower and ducked out of sight. Then, from the buildings, a siren sounded.

"Vital alert – Airwatch reports localized disturbance in your sector. Clamp. Inoculate. Protect."

The air above began to shimmer with heat. Then, as two soldiers kept firing on the tower and the other moved to head around the side and up the staircase, something fell from the heavens.

A heavy _thing_ crashed into the railroad, smashing the lines into steaming bits of distorted metal. Something large and angry reared its head and roared. Above, something gave a low whistle. A circular cloud revealed itself in a glint of steel, descending like a particularly slow frisbee. Meanwhile, more beams of light shone about the tracks on either side of the tower.

"Overwatch, foreign pathogens in this zone. Requesting specialist support."

"Overwatch, MEC support requested in this zone, we have active xenobiotics."

"Ripcord, ripcord!"

The alien, a great gorilla-like beast with a pink face and heavy green armor, drew a similarly bright green gun forth and fired. Predictably green globs of what might have been plasma went steaming by overhead, making Gordon plant his head solidly in the dirt as the bullets and energy blasts whizzed by.

One of those globs caught the scanning soldier square in the chest as he readied his weapon. He gave a single electronic scream and collapsed backwards, his armor smoking. His weapon skidded close to where Gordon lay. The soldier did not rise. Gordon did not hesitate.

Gordon grabbed hold of the weapon's stock and dragged it towards him, rising in one smooth motion. With a grimace, he planted the befouled butt of the gun against his shoulder and took aim at … actually, who were the good guys here? _There were plenty of aliens at Black Mesa. None of them friendly._ None of the ones he could see had been at Black Mesa, but still.

Behind Gordon, the passenger train's conductor's cabin had burst into flames. The conductor lay twitching in a bloody heap in the gravel, having caught a backhanded blow by one of the brutes. People screamed from inside the train. All in all, Gordon did not feel like going that way.

In front of Gordon, the railroad stretched ahead, presumably eventually reaching civilization. Soldiers ducked behind the towers or retreated down towards the collection of buildings, but none paid him any mind. _And the beach does look promising…_

Gordon, weapon in his arms, began his mad sprint forward. Behind him, something whirred and then made a noise like the one in movies. You know, the unsheathing sound. Only a lot of them. Gordon glanced behind to see _something_ with a scorpion tail begin lighting up the soldiers.

"Overwatch, air contaminant present, too small for scrubbers. Requesting immediate XCOM support."

"Outland checkpoint – you are approved for immediate clinical intervention," echoed an electronic female voice from somewhere near the buildings. "A local stabilization team has been diverted to your zone. Hold. Brace. Skydrop in thirty seconds."

"Friend! Stop!" The winner of the world's standing high jump yelled at Gordon as he dashed past the tower. Gordon paid the madman no mind. He dashed for the thundering obelisk, the one that sent up plumes of sand with each ground pound.

Up close, Gordon could see it had a button, currently set to "on" if the green light were any indication. Seeing no purpose to the device, but also no reason to mess with it, Gordon dashed onward, down the slope.

"Friend, not that way!"

Gordon's ill-fitted shoes touched sand. He heard the ground rumble, and sand flew into the air on his right. Something large pulled its way free from the earth. _Bugs!_ Gordon scrambled back, the sand becoming a frenzy of chittering and flailing limbs. The bugs, eyeless, four legged, and a mix of light green and sandy brown on a triangle shaped carapace, chased after him. Gordon heard the mother of all humming wings behind him and realized these fuckers could fly.

One landed in front of him, a few feet from the pounding device … only to chitter and back away, staring at the device as if it had been physically struck by the pounding. _It's like … an anti-thumper?_ Gordon began fervently hoping that he had not attracted a Shai-Hulud, since apparently anything was possible these days.

Gordon dove for the anti-thumper and slid against it, his back to the fighting behind him. To his right, back to the towers, stopped train, and the madness. To his left … wait. The highway he had seen earlier. It had used to run over the track, but apparently had collapsed. In the distance, however, amid the fallen concrete, a small tunnel led … well, God knew, God and the G-Man, but it was away from the worst of it. Gordon clutched his rifle tighter, knuckles whitening.

"Friend!" called out the thin man from atop the tower. "Friend, run!" _Now he wants me to run?_ Gordon stood and turned around, angling his body to expose as little as possible. The thin man waved from atop the tower. The soldiers, having been pushed back, now took up position among the buildings, firing intermittently at the big guys hunkered down behind the towers. The disc, once again simply a harmless disc, floated seemingly harmlessly between the towers, slowly heading towards the hamlet. As Gordon watched, sparks flew from its chassis as the soldiers' rounds pinged off of it. Only, up above, something hummed and then roared, like a jet turbine winding up.

"Skydrop away."

From over the cliff, something massive and blue lunged into the sky. Gordon's jaw dropped. It looked like some kind of crab crossed with a human hand, only with turbines glowing blue-hot instead of fingernails. The "hand," gripped a white cube, maybe four feet across. The flying thing flew by the tower and released its grip before speeding on, demonstrating the kind of nimbleness Gordon knew would not have been capable in a helicopter or fighter jet. _But then what is it? First the manta rays, and now this?_

The cube struck the earth and sent up a plume of dirt. Then, like clockwork, arms protruded out. The rough shape of a helmet, sunken into the stark white torso, in which a single red orb shone out. Its arms, thick metal and wire bound together and suffused in a golden glow, gripped a strangely familiar weapon. The robocop faced the aliens with a stiff back and a readied weapon. A plasma bolt struck it full in the chest. For a moment, the chest plate glowed bright green, then cherry red, then just a faint orange. The robot did not so much as flinch.

"Overwatch, active xenobiotics in this zone," boomed the robot, voice so deep as to be almost indecipherable. "Overwatch, this is an active infestation zone."

"Exogen breach," called out another soldier. Suddenly, the sand around Gordon puffed with stray rounds. The sand creatures chirped and skittered back as bullets punched into them, spraying yellow ichor from the wounds. Then, with a sudden hellish buzz, they took off into the air, jumping towards the fight. "Overwatch, Sector 10 is now an infestation zone."

Gordon glanced at the obelisk, then back to the soldiers as the aliens closed in with tooth and claw. _It's a long way to the tunnel._ Hoping that, if any of them were left, his fellow train passengers kept the doors locked, Gordon hit the button on the anti-thumper. Then, as it whirred and ceased all movement, he ran like hell.

"Get that restrictor back online! We risk a full sector overrun!"

Something electric sounded off behind Gordon, and he suddenly realized why the robot's gun had looked familiar. _Gauss gun. Like in Black Mesa. Guess they made it to mass production._ What kind of future had he stumbled into?

Gordon's feet burned as he pumped stiff legs across the train tracks and over a thin layer of grass. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see the disc, a hole burned freshly through it, falling to earth in a pile of red-hot metal. A muffled bang as he turned his head again announced its spontaneous combustion.

"Scythe 2. Receiving." The robot again, voice deep. "Confirmed. New target parameters established." Gordon looked behind him. The robot looked back. For a moment, Gordon felt something weird, like making eye contact with someone at a party and realizing that you both knew each other. Then it turned to a shiver of fear. "Scythe 2 pursuing. Secondary skydrop in progress. Harden this position."

Another crab thing materialized over the hill, a crate of some kind in its grip. But Gordon saw it only for a moment. The tunnel looked tantalizingly close now. He scrambled down a hill of broken concrete and exposed rebar, minding his feet and legs on the way down. The ground shook from behind him. With a final skid of his feet, he ran for the fallen ramp that would take him up to the tunnel. _Please don't be blocked._

The shaking from behind turned to thunder. Gordon took one last look behind him, only to see a hand obscure his vision. He fell backwards just in time for the robot's grasp to miss him. Then he scooted backwards on his ass, pushing against the ground with one hand while the other tried to prop up the rifle. He let off a sharp burst, and two of the rounds smacked the robot on either side of its "eye." It paid this attack no mind.

"Friend!" The jumping man stood at the top of the hill, by the rails. A big guy waited by his side. "Friend, I am coming!" He gave a stiff wave of his arm, and the big guy fired, plasma smacking into the robot's back. A chunk of charred and smoking metal fell from the robot's rear chassis. It turned in place. The thin man dove out of the way with alarming alacrity, then did a deft hand spring off the hill, landing about seven feet down. He bolted towards Gordon, who sucked in a deep breath, stood, and charged the rest of the way up the ramp. The air chilled quickly, and the light dimmed into near blackness.

"Friend!" The thin man followed inside. He turned towards the light and hissed something, something that did not sound possible coming out of a human throat and lungs. Something green and glinting flashed at the entrance of the tunnel. The thin man pelted towards Gordon, arms waving. "Friend, down!"

Gordon flung himself down. Something exploded in a flash of emerald. With a sudden tumble of rock an dust, the tunnel entrance came down, the bright light of the sun shutting off almost completely, leaving Gordon in near darkness. As the dust settled, Gordon could hear only his heartbeat, his heavy breath. Gordon stood, facing the thin cracks of light through which the sun shone through.

"Friend." He looked down. The thin man, pinned at the legs by a fallen slab of rock. As Gordon watched, the man bent all the way around, impossibly far, torso and all, trying to pry the rock loose, looking more like a worm than a man. Then he fell back, yellow eyes pinched with exhaustion. "Friend, you need only loosen it. Please, I can help you."

Gordon looked down at the thin man, then further down the tunnel. It smelled awful, he could see hardly anything, and it had obviously not seen use in a long time. But the way looked clear. _And this … thing. Well, the G-Man was obviously not human. This thing has just as little of an excuse. And part of me has had it with these guys._ Gordon took a half-step away.

The thin man slumped. "I understand. You are important. You must survive. I am not important. I know this. It is the way of things." He didn't even sound sad. Just … logical. Like this course of action made sense, it was just disappointing. _Would I have walked away from there – well, ran – if he had not called in his friends?_

Gordon stopped. _There is a first time for everything. Even friendly aliens, it seems._ Gordon spun on his heel, dropped his rifle to the ground. With a grunt, he leaned down and pulled up against the rock. It shifted up just an inch before Gordon had to set it down again. But an inch was all it took.

The thin man slipped from the underside of the rock like an arm from a sleeve. He stood without ever bending his knees, his torso simply bending upward like he was a slinky. He smiled at Gordon, yellow eyes glinting.

"Friend, I thank you." He gestured down the tunnel. "You will not regret this. I see well enough in the dark. Even if I know not where this leads, we will not be taken unawares."

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but something ground against the rocks outside. Some more light sneaked in.

"They dig their way through," murmured the thin man. He gestured down the tunnel. "Let us see where this winding road takes us, hmm? And perhaps shed some light on a few matters. I think we have much to teach each other."

The thin man set off, and Gordon, scooping his rifle off the floor, followed.

"My name is … Adam, if you need one," called back the thin man. "Don't worry. Follow me, and you will soon once more feel the sunlight on your face."


	16. Forget About Freeman

Scythe 2 pulled another broken slab of concrete free from the collapsed entrance, metal straining at the effort. No sooner had he pulled away the slab, the rocks came crumbling down yet again, sending up another choking cloud of ancient dust. The hole at the top of the pile grew a little larger, however, and there could not have been too much left to dig through. Scythe 2 continued on dutifully, while her handlers chattered on back at the Citadel, their faces visible in the corners of Scythe 2's feed.

"Is one anticitizen worth such effort?" asked the doctor. "The rest of Scythe Team is still working to contain the antlions, and more aliens could be on the way. We should send Scythe 2 back there."

"We are not letting this one slip through our fingers," said the Administrator stubbornly. "That man … I am all but certain it was-"

"Gordon Freeman," finished the engineer coolly, the corners of his lips twitching. _But we already knew that, didn't we?_ Something in Scythe 2 remembered. Something _cared._ "Well. And about time, too."

"Gordon Freeman?" asked the doctor, as if he had missed an obvious joke. Scythe 2 pried another slab loose and hurled it aside, rebar scattering as the chunk burst on the ramp behind her. "One of your colleagues, I take it?"

"Of course, the Aperture employee has not heard of Dr. Freeman," said the engineer with a laugh.

"Do not mock my former place of work, sir." The doctor's voice remained cool and steady. "We had our own breakthroughs and accolades, even if the world was not privy to them. No, I have not heard of this "Dr. Freeman." Should I have?"

"Dr. Tygan was snapped up fairly early by our benefactors." The Administrator gave the engineer a knowing look. "He did not waste time on fruitless pursuits, Dr. Shen, when he knew his mind could be put to greater use in direct service of humanity through the Universal Union. As such, he had little contact with vortigaunts and other undesirables, and never met Gordon personally."

"A pity. I always found him an engaging young man." The engineer smiled at Scythe 2, a twinkle in his eye. "Resourceful, and willing to work in conditions and on projects that other Ph.D.s considered beneath them." Something glinted in the engineer's eye. "And he had quite the arm for flinging au gratin potatoes, when the situation demanded it."

"We vowed to never speak of that again," said the Administrator through gritted teeth.

Scythe 2 widened the hole a little more. She could see inside the tunnel now. Her mind drifted towards her gauss cannon, lying behind her atop the ramp. _It would low right through._ Her tactical protocols rejected this out of hand. _Too much structural instability. The entire tunnel could collapse._

"His willingness to perform manual labor … that was how he ended up in the test chamber during the Resonance Cascade." The Administrator sighed, looking oddly forlorn and old for a moment. "At ground zero. Technically the entire Black Mesa debacle could be left at his feet, but that would be fallacious."

"Who would you blame then, Wallace?" aske the doctor. Something made Scythe 2 pause and listen, her protocols frozen. _Yes, Doctor. Who is to blame here?_

"Perhaps some blame could be laid at the feet of the Anomalous Materials staff, who pushed the equipment to 105% of its normal capacity and ignored a reading that indicated a potential risk of dimensional breach during the operation." Wallace Breen cleared his throat. "Perhaps I, the administrator, could be blamed for signing off on the operation." A shadow passed over Dr. Breen's brow. "But I know who I would blame. The one who brought us that sample. Eli was right. We should have aborted that test."

"And who was that?" asked the doctor. But Breen waved him off.

"It doesn't matter; it would take too long to explain, and you would not believe me. What matters is the here and now. Scythe 2?" Scythe 2 started moving again. "Scythe 2, you need to expedite that process. Get that tunnel opened and up and engage in pursuit!"

"You still have not explained Freeman's importance," persisted the doctor. "He is hardly the only Black Mesa survivor. I am speaking to two of them." _Two._

"Gordon Freeman was a research associate who had barely earned the distinction of his Ph.D. at the time of the Black Mesa incident." Breen rolled his eyes. "He had the good fortune to be clad in a Hazard suit at the time, and managed to acquire a small collection of weapons. The worst excesses of the Black Mesa incident can be laid directly at his feet – the slaughter of vortigaunts and soldiers alike."

"But he killed the beast at the other end of the rift," murmured the engineer. "I was there. I saw him off. He stopped the first invasion. And he freed all of vortikind."

"Due to poetic license and alien manipulation, he has acquired an almost messianic reputation in the eyes of _certain citizens._ " Breen and the engineer's eyes met. There came a pregnant pause. "I am sure we, we of such a scientific bent, would not stoop to such levels of magical thinking and idolatry." The hole was now wide enough for a normal man to hunch through. But Scythe 2 did not meet the criteria. Scythe 2 continued to shift the base aside.

"When frozen by despair, you will flock to the heat of hope no matter how unlikely salvation might seem," said Dr. Shen, unintimidated. "The man survived impossible odds under terrible circumstances. Eli and Izzy barely escaped Anomalous Materials alive, and they were not at ground zero. He is the Free Man."

"The Opener of the Way, yes, I know." Breen ground his teeth. "Spare me the pseudo-spiritualistic mumblings of a lost people. The vortigaunts' worship I can understand, at least, but why our wayward citizens have latched on to it – well. I suppose you are right. It can be only desperation."

"So, he is an icon, then." The doctor rubbed his chin. "I see. You are eager to catch the man in order to use him as a symbol?"

"That or hang him from a tree," replied Breen bluntly. "He is unlikely to go quietly. He would be more of a boon in our enemy's hands than ours. Scythe 2, you are to pursue and capture Freeman if possible, but amputate if you must."

"Confirmed," boomed Scythe 2 automatically. _He does not have the suit. A single shot would-_

But the thought did not last. Something in Scythe 2's brain found the origin and clamped down, hard. With a pinch, Scythe 2 found himself able to focus fully on his task at long last. Now, there was a gap the soldier could sidle through.

Scythe 2 retrieved his rifle and stepped into the dark.

"Engaging thermal." The pitch black turned into a world of harsh oranges and reds against a background of muted shifting purple. A green laser, previously invisible, shone out from the barrel of his gun. "Zero movement. Proceeding."

"Overhead clearance looks good," said Breen, causing the engineer to chuckle.

"I would hope so. Trucks were supposed to come through here, once. We would need a lot more MELD before we could turn Scythe 2 into a strider." The engineer's laughter died quickly when Breen adopted a contemplative expression. "I – I assure you that is impossible."

"Oh yes," said Dr. Breen absentmindedly, still thinking. "I am sure."

"Scythe 1 – Sector 10 Infestation Zone sterilized." The soldier's voice crackled through Scythe 2's helmet. "Requesting authorization to reinforce Scythe 2."

"What is the status of the train carriage and its passengers?" asked Dr. Breen while Scythe 2 advanced down the tunnel.

"Multiple citizens amputated. Driver car and supervising protection officer have been deserviced."

"Overwatch, send in a dropship to retrieve our wayward citizens and bring them safely to the city." Dr. Breen paused for a moment. "Two and Three check the hamlet as well, if you would. The rest of you, make sure our citizens do not run on us. And keep them secure from any other threats. We may also experience additional aerial incursions."

"We need to secure the orbit," said the doctor. "They're hitting trains left and right."

"We are prepping satellites at multiple citadels, but it will take time to launch them out of the atmosphere, Tygan." Breen sighed, obviously frustrated. "For the moment, we need to hunt down Freeman."

"He looks just how I remembered him," murmured the engineer. "On the day of the test. How is that possible?"

"We can discuss that later," said Breen sharply. "Scythe 2, any movement?"

"Zero movement." Scythe 2 pressed onward. Up ahead, beams of light shone through a hole in the tunnel roof – something had apparently fallen through both the hillside and into the tunnel. One glance at her feet revealed the source – an empty headcrab shell. Her suit also picked up on numerous stress fractures as a result of this. "Caution: structural instability detected. Gauss rifle may cause unacceptable collateral damage. Personal integrity compromised."

"Naturally there was a hole all along that we could have entered through." Dr. Breen sounded a hair's breadth away from throwing something. "One stray shot from that cannon and the whole tunnel could collapse." Breen sucked in through his teeth. "Tygan, what's the status on the Ramis Project?"

"A 53% increase in fuel efficiency." The doctor sounded quite proud. "I can probably increase that number over time, as well as the intensity of the beam. This substance … elerium, you called it?"

"Our Benefactors pried its name from the corpses of our opposition." Breen did not sound pleased about this. "But yes, elerium. Used a catalyst and fuel source. It may have some other anomalous properties as well. These mutons have used it in religious ceremony."

"So, we are not fighting brain-dead automatons," said the engineer, brow furrowing. "They are also living, thinking creatures."

"Try not to feel too sympathetic for them, doctor." Breen gave a wave of his hand. "They did come here to invade us. Rampart 1, deliver the Ramis Package to Hangar 4 and prepare it for skydrop."

"You're going to ship the weapon all the way to the coast?" asked the engineer, incredulous.

"It's not that far." Breen's head disappeared, likely checking a map. "Close to, uh, Ravenholm. Not too far from where our dear old friend Eli lives."

"Ravenholm," muttered the engineer darkly. Breen ignored him.

"Scythe 2, wait for reinforcement and weapon drop. Do not fire your gauss rifle within the tunnel. Scan for Freeman and pursue if you see him, but otherwise wait for drop. ETA, eight minutes."

 _A rough estimate._ Scythe 2 waited in place. A few minutes later, two more white-suited companions joined her - 5 and 6.

"Got nothing on my radial."

"Zero movement. Scan for possible necrotics. Stand by for supply drop."

"Are you sure you can stand to wait, Wallace?" asked the doctor. "I thought you were desperate to catch this Freeman?"

"I will not be made a fool of," snapped Breen. "The last thing I need is to spend half a day digging up the ruin of Scythe 2 to recover the MELD investment because Scythe 2 insisted on shooting the good doctor just because he brandished a crowbar at it. Besides – there is little chance of missing with a gluon gun. And given the presence of at least one shell, we may very well stumble on Freeman with a headcrab latched to his skull." Breen rubbed his chin. "Scythe 5 and 6, sweep down the tunnel. Report anything you find. Immobilize Freeman if you see him but try not to sterilize."

"Confirmed. Scythe 5 advancing."

A minute or two later, after the footsteps of her companions faded, the familiar whine of a dropship echoed through the tunnel. As the underside of the crab-like creature became visible through the hole in the tunnel, dust kicked off the floor. _Once I would have had to blink. Or shield my eyes._ But Scythe 2 did not move as the dropship released its payload. The crate smacked into the headcrab shell and slid down it before sliding open in a hiss of released pressure.

"The man who originally developed this could not bear to use it on a living creature," said Dr. Breen, eyes lighting up at the sight of the weapon – a massive backpack linked to a hose. "But alas, we live in unconscionably uncivilized times. Scythe 2, requisition that weapon. It's quite good for close encounters."

"The addition of elerium to the gluon gun has greatly increased its maximum firing time," reported the doctor, glasses glinting in the viewscreen. "The gluon gun was previously more of a curiosity than a feasible weapon; we are not exactly flush with depleted uranium cores, and the weapon is exceedingly difficult to load in the field. Now, however, these particular shortcomings have ceased to be an issue."

"All you need to know, Scythe 2, is that whatever you point it at will die." Breen chuckled. "And you can point it at an awful lot of things. Right now, we just need Freeman. Scythe 5 and 6, report!"

"Presence of anticitizens detected. Lambda sign. Main tunnel collapse. Evidence of use of emergency side tunnel."

"Amputated necrotics. Unknown toxin detected in loose virome."

"They did something to the headcrab." Scythe 2 locked the gauss rifle to her shoulder, where it magnetized in place, the stock folding in. Then she lifted the backpack, snapped it in place as it also magnetized. Then she lifted the hose and nozzle. "Scythe 2, are you set? Go check it out."

Scythe 2 obeyed Breen's instructions and continued onwards. Sure enough, the tunnel ahead slanted downwards and in on itself, victim to decades of nonexistent maintenance and apparently occasional shelling. Scythe 5 and 6 stood to either side of a recently opened emergency door on the right, pulse rifles trained on the inside. Something warm but quickly losing heat showed up on thermal.

"There's the zombie." The doctor leaned into his monitor as Scythe 2 stamped over. "Hmm. The corpse appears undamaged. But the crab…"

"Poisoned. The thin men can spit poison. Headcrabs are apparently susceptible." Breen rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Two more dead down the corridor. Scythe 2, do you have clearance in this tunnel?"

Scythe 2's legs shortened, sinking into her chassis as she compacted partway into a cube. Her arms likewise retracted inwards, letting the hose dangle freely as she relinquished her grip. Turning sideways, she just barely fit inside the thankfully empty corridor.

"Restricted movement." Breen sighed.

"Five and Six, take point." Scythe 2 stepped aside and let her smaller companions lead the way. "Follow. I know what is at the other end of this tunnel – they will not get far."

Scythe 2 edged her way through the smaller tunnels while the doctor and engineer watched with rapt attention.

"We need to adapt the human form, I think. Imitate bone first, before creating armor." The doctor scribbled something on an unseen notepad. "The second iteration should take after our crb synths and striders. They have impressive maneuverability for their size."

"We are _not_ turning Scythe 2 into a strider!" The engineer's anger looked plain across his wrinkled face.

"Not what I am suggesting. I am suggesting that our current iteration of the MEC suit is unsuitable for cramped environments. I am looking to crimp certain design notes the Universal Union has deigned to share with us."

"We can discuss this later, gentlemen," said Breen, spreading his arms wide. "Scythe 2, disengage thermal. Sunlight ahead."

The tunnel, fresh with the corpses of necrotics ( _a dual death, like mine_ ) opened out into the gray sunshine. Before them, an endless expanse of rubble, and soon-to-be rubble.

"You won't see many rebels in this wasteland," said Breen grimly. "All the hiding places have been taken. By worse things."

The highway once led directly into City 17. Now its foundations had either collapsed, dribbling stone and steel over the already blasted earth, or chunks of it had given way entirely, due to nature or … something that was not nature. An old gas station, its roof mostly gone and its pumps long empty, greeted them on their right, old wrappers blowing by in the breeze.

"That gluon gun appears pointless here, Breen," said the engineer. Wallace waved him off.

"It needs to be field tested. And besides, we don't want wild shots here, either. And the gluon gun is more effective against smaller targets. Expect bullsquids, houndeyes and headcrabs to be roaming around the ruins. Keep your radials spinning, gentlemen. Sweep and advance – we're sending in a hunter chopper."

"Confirmed. Continuing sector sweep."

Scythe 2 started up the hill. Here, in the wastelands outside City 17, the land turned into a concrete jungle, complete with green bubbling ooze underfoot. Her Geiger counter crackled as she stomped through it, but she was long past caring about such concerns. Something deep down wanted to laugh hysterically.

"Scythe 2, Freeman did not have a HEV suit, so he will avoid radioactive regions. You can avoid them as well."

Scythe 2 complied, leaving the underside of what could be called Highway 17 and climbing up the nearby slope for a better view. Gravel and rock skidded against her heavy feet as she climbed, but she did not fall. She turned, the sun automatically shaded by her vision, and looked down from her fresh vantage point. _Highway stretching broken to City 17. Pools of ooze and piles of broken concrete beneath. Hills and woods around us._ But now, something in the distance … groaned. Scythe 2 caught a flash of movement from behind part of the bridge.

"Possible reinfection. Scythe 2 sweeping in." Scythe 2 moved at a clip well beyond what any other member of the Transhuman Overwatch could accomplish, covering dozens of meters in seconds while her companions followed behind, covering her rapid advance. The groaning grew louder, coupled with the sound of … tree bark, crackling. Odd gargling, a low humming.

"Oh, what have you gotten yourself into, Freeman?" asked Breen, a grin suddenly playing on his face. "Is this what I think it is?"

Scythe 2 rounded a cracked highway support and looked down. There, from a pit, rising up about twenty feet – three green, blade-headed tentacles, currently probing the surrounding wastes, feeling out the area around another support, tapping at the entrance of a small run-down building, grasping at a patch of grass – the one oasis in the sea of dust and ruin.

And there, moving ever so slowly up the hill on the other side of them, heading towards City 17 on foot, two figures turned to look at Scythe 2.

"That's a big one," murmured Dr. Shen, clearly worried. "Might have other nests it can poke its heads through – tunnels worming through the earth all over. God, what has happened to our home?"

Scythe 2's protocols had not been adapted for xenian tentacles yet. She remained very still and silently paged Overwatch for direction.

"Scythe 2?" asked Breen impatiently. "Scythe 2, what are you doing?"

"Standard protocol for Overwatch soldiers is to request reinforcement and remain still and quiet in the presence of tentacles." The doctor sounded amused by this.

"We don't have time for this," snapped Breen. "Scythe 2, grab Freeman. Kill the thing if you have-"

Propelled by the order, but also something _deeper_ , Scythe 2 charged forward, feet pounding against the soil. The two tentacles that could face her immediately rotated to face this new sound, lashing out. Scythe 2 shifted to the side at the last moment, letting one tentacle pass over her, striking at the earth she stood at a second ago. She grabbed hold of the top of the blade running over the head, let go of the nozzle, and punched once.

The tentacle's carapace caved inward, and when Scythe 2 retracted her fist, it came away thick with green. She released her grip. More viridian flood poured out of the tentacle's wound. It rose high into the air, well out of reach. The other tentacle retreated, preparing to lash out again.

This time Scythe 2, but the tip of the creature's head still chipped at her side. Her armor registered non-negligible damage. Part of her armor fell away in a shredded heap. But Scythe 2 felt nothing, save perhaps muffled elation. She punched once, twice at the hardened neck of the tentacle. Her fists scuffed the neck first and then opened a small wound. The tentacle swept its entire body left, trying to knock the MEC trooper off her feet. She instead caught the tentacle as it came towards her, her grip clamping in place.

The tentacle rose, shaking, trying to dislodge the MEC trooper, whose hydraulic-infused grip refused to loosen. She engaged her feet, kicking, trying to create a foothold in the creature. The carapace gave way fully this time, and Scythe 2 now had four points of contact with the creature. It moaned and roared. Below Scythe 5 and 6 watched in what might have been awe, or might have been their programming. Scythe 2 looked down at them from the rear camera in her back, before returning to the action.

More secure than before, Scythe 2 released her right hand and reached for the gluon gun's hose. She pressed it into the open wound, pushing it in until taut. Then she squeezed the trigger.

The glowing blue beam came out in a scream of superheated particles. Tissue melted and parted under the deluge of energy, shooting up and down the tentacle as it went. The carapace, once a bright green, now began to turn orange, the color running up and down the tentacle like a lighter's flame held beneath a leaf. The fire spread, and Scythe 2 disengaged the gluon gun. Cheering echoed from her viewscreen.

"My creative combat programming in action," declared the doctor proudly.

"I never thought we would be designating such a unit for environmental cleanup," muttered the engineer in disbelief, but also a smidge of pride. "Will this kill the entire creature?"

Scythe 2 released her grip and fell to earth. The tentacle tumbled down in a charred heap, the smoke now rising from its wounds. The other tentacles, groaning in similar pain, retreated into the pool. _Threat eliminated. Proceed-_

But another protocol overrode it, unbidden. _Infection zone is still active. Prosecute._ The elation rose. Scythe 2 stared at the pit where the tentacles had retreated.

"Excellent work, Scythe 2," said Breen, breathless. "Now, proceed-"

But Scythe 2 stormed forward and leapt. She fell like the Sword of Damocles, feet braced for unforgiving contact with either the ground or the head of a tentacle.

Her left foot found one, her right the other. Her right foot cracked, but so did the tentacle, which screamed in a manner previously undocumented by all known records. Switching back to thermal, Scythe 2 caught the tentacle, the tip of its blade now hanging loosely from its head by a few threads of muscle, retreat into a wide tunnel. Scythe 2 followed it, the tentacle (and her superior) groaning all the while.

"Scythe 2, Freeman is the primary target here!" Breen's normally pale face took on a pinkish tone. The others did not share his sentiment.

"Kill it! Finish it!" shouted the engineer. "While we've got it on the ropes!"

"This would be the first documented instance of a tentacle being slain without high explosives or air support, Wallace," said the scientist, momentarily covering his mouth with a smooth hand for some reason. "Besides, we did want to field test the gluon gun."

"Scythe 2, sweeping in. Sterilizing." Scythe 2 could hear the tentacle slithering backward as she sprinted onwards. Something slithered away at speed, but her legs, even with the right foot damaged, carried her onwards faster. She arrived just in time to see the tentacle withdraw through the other side of the tunnel and coil inwards. Below, something squid-shaped and red-hot on thermal looked up with crimson eyes not accustomed to seeing anything other than dinner as it was pulled in. _Oh, yes._

Scythe 2 dove down as the wounded tentacle reared its broken head. Other appendages, far more than three, stretched up and out through other tunnels. And now the appendages slid back, their thick necks coiling about the base. Scythe 2 vaulted over them, charging for the brain. The eyes widened as she drew near.

Scythe 2's fists glanced away with an embarrassing scuffing sound. This close to the base, the heads dared not touch her, but it was unclear if she would be able to crack the creature's skull. She applied the gluon gun. The thick green carapace lit up, and the creature roared in pain, the eyes closing and twitching in their sockets, but nothing doing. Scythe 2 expended half the pack and produced nothing but steam. The tentacles waited, six heads twitching in pain and anger.

 _I can see the mouth._ It remained resolutely shut, however. No Overwatch protocols would help, here – all action was defined as "discretionary." _How familiar._ She reached for her gauss cannon and unfolded the stock. She placed the barrel directly against the creature's closed eye socket, holding it secure. The high whine of a building charge echoed around the cavern.

Scythe 2 held the trigger. A second longer. Another second. _Do I dare?_ The thought came from the black of her mind and vanished into the black of the cavern. The scream of the gauss rifle rose another octave. Another. Breen opened his mouth to say something.

Scythe 2 released the trigger. A stream of brilliant orange sparks flew from the tentacle's base. The beast let loose an echoing roar and a gurgle as its skull split open in a spray of green. Its appendages lashed out against the sides of the cavern, splitting soil and rock. Scythe 2 paid them no mind. She grabbed the hose and fed it inside of the now-open beast.

"Sterilizing."

The cavern glowed blue. The beast's limbs bucked and fell, twitching, as the brain that guided them quickly dissolved into its component particles. Scythe 2 fed the energy inside the cavity until it collapsed in on itself in a mess of hissing goop. She pulled the hose back and refit her gauss rifle in place.

"Cephalopod sterilized. Resuming sector sweep."

"Yes," said Dr. Breen, eyes wide, not quite believing what he had just seen. "Yes, quite. We need – we need to get on Freeman."

The scientist cleared his throat. "I think our Benefactors will be quite pleased with what we have developed."

"This is nothing until we acquire more MELD to manufacture additional MECs!" snapped Breen as Scythe 2 continued her climb back up out of the tunnel.

Eventually she came to a vertical section, but it was no matter. Her legs sectioned back downwards and then engaged like pistons, flying up at speed, small turbines engaging in her feet. She landed hard on the outside of the pit, chassis steaming.

"Airwatch reports localized disturbance in your sector." Dispatch's voice filled the air. The thrumming of a helicopter's blades followed it. "Sector alert: xenopathogen presence detected. Local stabilization teams: Clamp. Sterilize. Cauterize."

The hunter chopper soared overhead. Scythe 2 looked up just in time to see it catch the first energy blast.

The green leapt from a cloud, which parted to reveal a small UFO. The first blast shattered the cockpit, sending the chopper spinning out of control as both pilots vaporized. The second split the entire vehicle in half.

"They're trying to evacuate Freeman!" Breen slammed a fist against his desk. "We cannot let him go with them. Scythe 2 – do something!"s

Scythe 2 ran forward, eyes on the UFO as it descended, close to where she was. Five and Six were reporting in, opening fire fruitlessly on the craft as it landed, a ramp sliding below. Scythe 2 could see two citizens limping towards the entrance. _No time to reach them._ Two protocols presented themselves, leaving the discretion to Scythe 2. Something small but lingering selected an option. _It is more profitable, after all._

Scythe 2 grabbed the gauss rifle and began charging. She pointed it square – not at Freeman, but where the reactors had been on the last craft she had boarded. It did not matter that there were between five to ten feet of solid alien alloy between the initial impact and where the reactor stood. _No. It does not matter._ The whining increased in pitch.

"Scythe 2, what are you doing?" asked Breen. "Scythe 2, I need you to-"

Scythe 2 released the trigger earlier than she had against the tentacle. The blast shifted her entire body to the side as the gun recoiled, but the beam flew true. Brilliant orange hit the side of the craft square, leaving a smoking hole. A heartbeat later, an explosion of brilliant emerald ripped through the rear of the craft.

"Holy shit!" shouted Dr. Breen as the UFO listed and then sunk from hovering just barely above the ground to, well, becoming a part of the ground. Loose bits of the craft fell from the outer surface, skittering into the dirt. Scythe 2 stood, gun smoking, quite satisfied deep down. Below, Freeman and his companion, after pausing momentarily in panic, began rounding the craft, heading for another tunnel beyond it.

"Freeman, get after him!"

But something chimed in Scythe 2's head.

"MELD presence detected." Dr. Breen bit his lip.

"The substance is on a timer, Wallace," prompted the scientist gently. "How badly do you want Freeman?"

"Anticitizen Freeman proceeding to Derelict Zone 6." Scythe 2 remained still, waiting for the ultimate directive from her Administrator. "MELD and additional exogens obstructing pursuit."

"You do need the MELD, don't you?" asked the engineer, his amusement obvious.

Wallace Breen brought a hand to his mouth and bit on his index knuckle, thinking. Sweat beaded on his brow.

"Without that suit, he's dead, anyway." Breen breathed heavily. "All local stabilization teams converge on crash site. Sterilize and disassemble." Breen took another deep breath.

"Forget about Freeman. Might not have even been him, anyway."


	17. Ashes and Blood

Food back at base sucked. At least three people back at base liked to surprise him with their dongs and then shout at him for being gay (he had reported this to his sergeant, who then also accused him of being gay.) The Arizona heat sometimes got so intense that his own breath came in feeling ice cold. Yet Adrian Shephard would have traded all of what he endured now in an instant if it meant another shitty day at Santego.

The food back in Arizona might have sucked (except for the bacon – Jesus he felt hungry) but at least it was plentiful. Most of the marines were assholes to some extent, but at least they all spoke English. At least they were all human. And, as he took his post on the wall in the pouring Bulgarian rain, the beating sun of Arizona became a fond and distant memory. Mist rose from the forest floor below and made his entire watch look like the set of a horror film. And really, was a decommissioned Soviet missile base such a bad location for that kind of film? Hell, they even had monsters. _Friendly, my ass._

The new world sucked. The women were all skin and bones, none of them were American, and he suspected that even if he did get down and dirty with them, God knew if they were, um, "clean" or not. His mother had always urged caution with that kind of thing, and, well … _hell of a weird way to honor her memory_. _Think they have rubbers here?_

Bradford had tried to reassure him where his parents were concerned, for all the good that did. Even if they had survived – unlikely at best, given what he knew – the odds of them being present on the continent, let alone the country, were slim to none. So, alive or dead, he was most likely not seeing them again. _Deal with it, marine._ He'd had his time to go crazy about it. Now it was time to get back into it. _Watch the skies. Check for UFOs._

Adrian still did not feel like he had quite a grip on the situation just yet. The UFOs were new, apparently, so at least he was as up to speed on that as everyone else. That was nice, sort of, aside from strange British men urging him to come on board their spacecraft. _Mom had a few words to say about that kind of thing as well._ But the Combine – he hadn't seen hide nor hair of them, beyond his first few moments awake, and yet they were supposed to be in charge of the whole fucking planet.

 _Until now, at least._ Adrian looked down from the watchtower, listening to the flapping of the canopy in the stiff breeze. _Looks like I got here at a good time. Or a bad time. I don't know. All I know is that I am in the wrong fucking place._

Below, Adrian heard the familiar clamp of a hand over a metal bar. Someone climbing up after him. Once, when he was greener, Adrian might have peered over the edge and see if it was someone worth shooting. Now, he just sat back against the railing, submachinegun readied, pointing square at where the fucker's head would shortly be.

A few seconds and sounds of flesh padding against metal later, the noise halted. Adrian cocked his head, not sure what they were playing at.

"The Shepherd will desist in his rapt observation," croaked a voice from below. "The scars from Black Mesa are fresh, and this one is concerned at the attentiveness of the Shepherd's trigger finger."

"One of you freaks." Adrian rolled his eyes and lowered his weapon. Bradford had been very clear on how he was to treat the vortigaunts. Seeing as the man himself had wasted about a dozen of the things back in Black Mesa by his own account (and while Uriah was listening in, no less,) Adrian felt it best to heed his advice. He was, after all, Adrian's superior officer. The vortigaunt's red-eyed head popped up over the lip of the tower, and Adrian did not fire, even as his pulse picked up at just the sight of the thing.

"The Shepherd is vigilant in his vigil," declared the vortigaunt as it cleared the ladder. _Does … does it realize it just repeated itself?_ "We who wield the Vortessence were uncertain whether we would ever meet the one who came after the Freeman, and sealed the portal."

"Wait – you guys know about that?" asked Adrian, eyebrows disappearing under his blue beanie. "You saw them too? The big guys who shot electricity?"

"Many opportunists wished to take advantage of the opening created by Black Mesa," said the vortigaunt, inclining his head. "We were pulled without knowledge or warning, then later ushered through at the Nihilanth's instruction. But others looked on with hungry eyes. Combine. And others. Those you fought. We know not their names."

"But you saw them, too?" asked Adrian, feeling more excited than he might have expected.

"As the Freeman penetrated our factories in Xen, we were called back. But for those that remained, yes, we encountered the interlopers as they stalked the steel corridors of Black Mesa. We felt the portal open beneath – a backdoor through which to consume the planet. The being known as the Gene Worm."

"Huh. That's what it was called?" Adrian scratched the back of his neck. "I was calling it Oscar the Grouch in my head. Because it was green and I could only see-" Adrian stopped, realizing he was: A. talking to an alien and B. going to have to explain Sesame Street to an alien. He stopped himself. "Right. Cool. Gene Worm." Adrian paused. "There, uh, a reason you're up here, Mr…?"

"The White Forest staff have not seen the need to give this one a name." The vortigaunt blinked at Adrian. "We who wield the Vortessence recognize each other by resonance – we need not names as you would understand them, for we can sense the many lives dwelled within each husk. Would we call one by the first form they inhabited, millennia ago in a long dead universe? Or by the form most favored by fate, most accomplished in poetry? Or their most recent habitation?" The vortigaunt shook its head. "The Shepherd may choose a name for this one, if he desires. We will serve our purpose regardless. Titles are a matter of courtesy."

"…okay." Adrian gripped his gun tightly to his chest. "So, you're like a race of Buddhists, or whatever? Reincarnating over and over?"

"We lack sufficient context to make a judgment on the validity of the Shepherd's statement," said the vortigaunt. _Jesus Christ, these guys speak like Shakespearian lawyers or some shit._ "Now – the original question. This one has journeyed up to this point in order to administer instruction as befitting one who might yet wield the Vortessence."

"Was that what the British guy was talking about?" asked Adrian, thinking back to the weird-ass UFO. "Colonel Cabbagepatch or whatever?"

"The Colonel Cubbage speaks with scant knowledge and an absence of wisdom." The vortigaunt's, uh, "lip" turned upwards, revealing pointed teeth. "He sensed raw potential coupled with ignorance of that untapped power. He would have taken you to his masters. They would have flattered. They would have cajoled. You would consider yourself a god. Yet, it would exact a heavy price. They would have turned you against those who fight for freedom."

Adrian scratched his chin. "So, you're saying Cabbage and his aliens are communists?"

The vortigaunt stared at Adrian for a few moments, smooth brown face utterly inscrutable.

"Yes."

"Well fuck, we really gotta stop them, then." Adrian laughed and stepped toward his new vortigaunt friend. _Well, I mean, he smells less than the humans here. And it sounds like he's gonna teach me to shoot lightning, so…_

A few days ago – well, give or take twenty years – Adrian would have thought the idea of anyone shooting lightning from their fingertips was metal as fuck, yes, but also complete nonsense. But now, taking a knee before this three-armed, six(?) eyed, slug-skinned Shakespearian freak, shooting lightning out of his fingertips seemed not only possible, but downright desirable, ASAP.

"Teach me your ways, oh master." Adrian did not shut his eyes, keeping them fixed on creature's clawed feet in case it tried any funny business. Instead it took a single step forward. Then something hard clamped around Adrian's head, making him gasp in surprise.

"The Shepherd will shut his eyes."

"I _am_ supposed to be keeping watch, sir!" barked Adrian, more out of fear than anything. The vortigaunt laughed.

"Heed the words of this one who wields the Vortessence, and soon you will peer through the mists, eyes unblinking, heedful of every leaping insect or slumbering bird." The vortigaunt jerked Adrian's head down, and not gently, either. "The Shepherd will shut his eyes and heed this one's instructions! We have not the time to cater to his misgivings."

"Shutting my eyes, sir." _Now he's a Shakespearian drill instructor. Fuck._ Adrian preferred the lawyer. The alien's grip loosened.

"Your infants arrive to this world without knowledge of sight, breath, or pain." The vortigaunt spoke, yet somehow the words kept rattling in Adrian's skull, like an echo bouncing off a cave. "Yet, they learn soon enough. Pain begets breath. Breathing eventually begets sight. All becomes clear through experience … yet pain is so oft the first lesson. Does the Shepherd understand?"

"I'm a motherfucking U.S. marine, sir," replied Adrian through gritted teeth. "Yeah, I get you. This is going to hurt."

"Humanity's vortal inputs are impaired," continued the vortigaunt, making Adrian wonder if that was somehow racist. "Corrections can be made, but at cost. Is the Shepherd ready to hear what once he could not, and feel where once he would have been numb?"

"Will I get to shoot lightning out of my hands like Palpatine?" asked Adrian.

The vortigaunt paused again.

"Yes."

"Then let's fucking do this!" roared Adrian.

"Agreed." The vortigaunt's grip loosened again, yet Adrian's head still remained firm in his claws. "The Shepherd will feel a pinch."

That was one way to put it. Adrian winced as a pain, sharp, like the kind he felt on planes when he had a sinus infection, build somewhere deep in his head. It came jabbing in hard and fast, each pulse sending a sharp sliver of suffering through his skull. But it wasn't like Adrian was a stranger to pain. _Not like I'm a fucking pussy. You guys gave me worse than this at Black Mesa. Bring it!_

"Attuning the resonance frequency," murmured the vortigaunt as Adrian gasped. "The pain will ebb soon. The Shepherd must listen, if he is able."

 _To what?_ Adrian mouthed the words, but the question faded almost immediately. Like a radio slowly tuning in to the correct channel, he could hear … everything? The wind picked up in volume, turning something audible only as it whistled past him into a cacophony that bent leaves and grass beneath its relentless breath and made his teeth vibrate.

The canopy's flapping up above became a shifting chorus of godawful snapping, occasionally making the wind cut out at the sound of it. Adrian's jaw clenched harder, and only resisted the urge to scream because _oh God, his own breath was deafening._

 _Do these sounds matter?_ A voice, low and soothing. _You skim the surface, fingers skidding against the glass. Breathe in, Adrian. Breathe in and push the superficial away. Really listen._

Adrian, each pulse a pounding drumbeat, gulped once, making his entire body heave at the effort. Then, a thin breath drawn inwards, he tried to listen past the wind, the rain, and his body's own gurgling processes. _What am I looking for, what am I looking, what am I?_

It was like seeing his own body, limp in the vortigaunt's stern embrace and periodically blocked by the flapping canopy, disappear far below him, zooming out like through a camera lens. Then the cloud layer, insubstantial and thick with ice crystals, which tinkled like so much fine china as he rose above even that, into the inky blackness.

Adrian Shephard, naked but not afraid, floated in the thin spaces above the planet, where the horizon turned soft, blue, and curved, and the line between atmosphere and emptiness became blurred. Somewhere deep below, the body that housed him breathed in and out, maintaining that tenuous (and now he could see how tenuous it was!) link between himself and his body. _So, this is what they meant. Names seem stupid, when you see things like this._

Far below, he could see the Citadels Bradford had mentioned, great blue bones sticking from the surface of the planet. He could feel many threads lead to them, but so few led back out. For all their size and official state of inhabitation, they felt so empty.

Adrian could feel his mind flattening out, spreading like water over a flat surface, slowing and getting thinner by the moment. God, he could feel so much – the sharp edges of the minds onboard the alien craft at planet's edge, reaching back but unable to grasp him. The Combine, deaf, blind, but strong, guided by something that practically _laughed_ at his passage. For a moment, Adrian felt the scrabbling of some mad idea, sick and twisted, green with desire. But it faded as soon as it arrived, snaking back into the minds of those it ensnared.

Each of his own thoughts became slow and shallow, the water slowing to a trickle. Adrian forgot the body down below, whose breaths slowed further, each little more than a shaky gasp as even autonomous processes fled.

 _You are dying._ But that seemed irrelevant. The tether that bound him was neither unique nor even the first. One day it would latch somewhere else, and life would begin anew. Nay, it would not even end. He would drift, and listen, and sleep. Deep down, wasn't that all he had ever wanted?

"We all find our own ways of enduring creation," said a voice, rasping and familiar. "To shelter oneself through but a single perspective is simple. You live and die ensconced in ignorance. To take a step beyond that is to freefall, plummet to your body's death as it forgets what it means to exist. It is calming, is it not?"

 _Yes._ Little of Adrian remained cognizant, but he could still think that much. _Yes. Everything seems so much clearer, now._

"Look upon my face." The vortigaunt, skin now a livid purple, blue electricity running across its smooth skin. Strange chanting filled Adrian's, well, not ears, but he could hear it well enough. Suddenly, the vastness of the universe felt so very crowded. "What do you see?" The vortigaunt gestured to its center eye, the one that used to be red. It now glowed a deep, mesmerizing blue. Adrian did not know how to respond. The vortigaunt gestured to the smaller eyes that ringed the top of his head, one, two, three.

"Not several eyes. One eye. But different perspectives. Yet it is the same eye, and the same reality." The vortigaunt inclined his head. "We who wield the Vortessence withstand creation by clinging to one another. The All-In-One. We are all connected, a single eye, yet we all see things differently. The human perspective is so lonely in comparison, is it not? Jettisoned into the world in a flurry of fluid, cut free from mother, and then eventually coming loose from your tether without another to guide you." The vortigaunt shuddered. "Would you content yourself with this loneliness? Will you fade away from this place, not to be seen again?"

Not enough of Adrian remained to answer. The vortigaunt sighed.

"First pain. And then the breath. And then slowly…" The vortigaunt stepped forward. The guttural chanting grew louder. "…you see." The vortigaunt intoned something in his own deep language. Adrian screamed.

 _Oh my God!_ A billion eyes glaring through three billion eyelids. He was pushing a broom with gangly arms, sweeping aside rubbish in City 17. No – he sung the songs of his people in a lonely drain pipe just outside Black Mesa East, a headcrab roasting on a spit. No – he readied his brothers for battle by harvesting pheromones, preparing the antlion war broods for a defense of a place between the rocks.

Wherever vortigaunts trod, Adrian felt their feet press against grass, concrete, and steel. Wherever they bled, Adrian felt the stabbing pain and rush of weakness. Wherever they sang … Adrian's throat grew raw. Yet, far down below, beneath a canopy flapping beneath a Bulgarian breeze, Adrian's lungs filled with oxygen once more, the vortigaunts guiding his motions. Adrian looked through a thousand, a million, a billion eyes. A thousand, a million, a billion sights, sounds, and sensations. But all one reality. Adrian heaved in another breath. His head throbbed.

"We tether you once more."

Adrian screamed, falling from his knees to his hands. The air came in a great rush of burning cold, lungs working like bellows to take in the oxygen they had been denied. But, worst of all, was coming to and seeing with just _one pair of eyes._ Adrian's fingers clenched pushed into his fist, and he looked up to the vortigaunt, face contorting with hate.

"Why did you bring me back?" Adrian heaved twice, a small amount of greenish-yellow something trickling from his lip. _God – our bodies are disgusting. Take me away from all this!_ Already, the sense of oneness bled from him. Now he could hear the wind, not as it really was, but through only a single feeble set of ears – a low roar as it buffeted against the sides of his face. The vortigaunt looked down at him, its face once again the familiar tan with a red eye(s).

"The Shepherd sees things as they are, and understands the glory of creation entire." The vortigaunt pressed its two main hands together, while the third curled inward, pressed tight against his chest. "Beautiful, is it not?"

Adrian coughed. "Take me back. Send me up there."

"The sense of loss will subside in time, and the rage will temper with duty." Even as the vortigaunt said this, Adrian's vision cleared a little. His heart began to throb more strongly again, and the lesser sensations took hold. Mouth – dry. Stomach – growling. Head – pounding. The mysteries of the universe could wait – he was on watch duty. "A promising result."

"Ugh. First one's free…" muttered Adrian, rising on shaking knees. _Not sure doing that again would be smart. What a rush – wouldn't want to come back from it._ "Jesus. Did I almost die? How is that a good result?"

"The Shepherd is not the first to see the All-In-One with the assistance of Vortikind," replied the vortigaunt, eye burning with a curious inner fire. "Yet, he is the first to return after glimpsing it. All others slipped free of their tether. Humanity was not yet ready to perceive things as we do."

"Vortal inputs impaired," muttered Adrian, pressing a hand to his ear, pushing it. Felt like it had water in it. "Great." _As you can see, you are not dead. Fucker really is a drill instructor._ "So, uh, can I shoot lightning."

"The Shepherd is welcome to try," replied the vortigaunt with what might have been sarcasm. Adrian cocked his head at the alien. "At present, the manifestations of such abilities without consumption of certain reagents appears unlikely. A pilgrimage must be made."

"…what?"

"You require more than simple guidance." The vortigaunt shook his head. "I will contact my brothers at the Victory Mine and inform them of your presence here. Soon, we will make the voyage over and commune deeply with the Vortessence."

Adrian took a glance behind him, over the walls and through the trees swaying in the wind. "I dunno, man. Stuff seems addicting."

"Humanity and Vortikind's plight demands that you master it and yourself," replied the vortigaunt sharply. "Unless the Shepherd feels himself incapable of bringing his formidable potential to bear…"

Adrian stepped forward, finger jabbing at the vortigaunt. "I'm a goddamn marine, freak. I eat danger and shit victory." _I just don't feel like doing LSD again._

"Worthwhile endeavors." The vortigaunt turned and began placing his foot on the top rungs of the ladder. "We will consult with the Bradford on your development. In the meantime, we would urge the Shepherd to keep a journal. His mind has loosened from its foundations. His dreams may prove instructive."

"Can you speak plain fucking English, please?"

The vortigaunt, head poking over the ladder, glared at him.

"The Adrian Shephard will keep a dream journal," growled the vortigaunt, "or be prodded with sharp sticks until he complies. Are we understood?"

"What?" But the vortigaunt had already vanished, its feet pounding against the ladder, the sound gradually fading. That just left Adrian, with the trees and the wind. And … the back of his neck prickling.

Adrian could hear nothing that made him turn to the southwest. He saw no flash of light, heard no electronic hum, did not even have a bad feeling. Something just prickled in his brain and he became … aware. He could hear voices on the edge of hearing – chittering, echoing voices. Somewhere in the distance, an engine died. A ramp descended. _UFO landing._ Adrian reached for his head, pressing against the temples with a gloved hand. _What exactly did that fucker do to me?_

Could he honestly alert the Captain based on … not even a suspicion, really? Just sensation. Inexplicable sensation. _Best play it safe._ He turned to the speaker fixed to the side of the tower.

"Menace 1-2 to Central, do we have a base to the southwest of us, over?"

"That would be White Forest Inn – got two guys there keeping watch and doing refueling, over." _Captain was prompt. Must be bored._

"Can we do a radio check with them, sir? Think I saw something over their way. Over."

The radio fell silent for a few moments. Then the speaker crackled, just barely audible over the wind.

"No response – possible interference. What did you see, Corporal, over?"

"UFO, maybe. Just a glimpse." Adrian shrugged. _No way in hell I'm telling him about that trip I just went on._ "Something shining. Looked UFO-shaped. Uh, wasn't sure. Just got its general bearing. About a click away from us, sir. Over."

"Saddle up, Corporal," came the immediate reply. "About time I took you out in the field anyway. I'll grab Jane Kelly and we'll do some recon. Try to make it quick. See you at the main entrance, out." _Damn. He must be_ really _bored._ Still, Adrian would take a trip out of the base over, well, doing anything else at this point. For all that he hated the climate and the food so far, he would still enjoy seeing more of the country he found himself in. _Shit, it probably still beats Afghanistan._

Adrian planted his feet firmly on the rungs of the ladder and descended, making sure each step was as sure as he could humanly make it. Even so, his feet still skidded a bit against the wet metal, making him bite his lip. Even when he reached the bottom, his feet still did not quite touch solid ground; the mud beneath his soles sucked and slid. He walked, bow-legged, up the hill and back into the base.

 _Two turns to the right, right?_ Adrian jogged onward, weapon swinging from his sling, leaving a trail of muddy prints behind him. He picked up speed as he saw something he recognized and began booking it for the exit, desperate to be free of the base. He almost ran headlong into Jane Kelly, who darted out of his path with an indignant look in her eye.

"Watch it! Oh, it's you." Jane frowned and folded her arms. Adrian stopped, head still turning to the open blast doors. _Sick of this base. Get me out of it._ "You need to be on your best behavior on this, all right? Do what the Captain says."

 _Honey, I'm a marine. I'm a professional._ But Adrian liked the way Jane wore her long brown hair, running through the back of her baseball cap. He liked the fact she enjoyed shooting guns as much as he did, and took him along when he was down. And he really liked the big fucking machete she had sheathed on her back. So he held his tongue and just gave a thumbs up.

"All right." Jane took the lead and Adrian followed, periodically glancing at her bony ass. _Huh. Vortigaunts didn't quite take that away from me._ He joined her in the rain with a grin. _First action since Black Mesa._ He did not know quite what to expect. _Just shoot at whatever needs shooting. Not like I stopped every fucking alien I saw back in New Mexico and requested their resum_ _è_ _. If it bleeds, I can kill it._

"Main thing to worry about out here is hunters," said Jane, not looking at him but instead staring at the ramshackle gate they had set up further down the gravel road. "You saw them when you woke up; dead already, which is how we prefer them."

"They tough?"

Jane whistled. "Oh yeah. And they travel in groups of three, usually."

Adrian grunted. _Great._ "Any advice?"

"If you can avoid them, do that. If not…" Jane paused, thinking. "Keep moving. They shoot flechettes that will tear you up. And if they stick to a solid surface, they explode. You can't stand still against those things."

"Okay." _I'd rather take notes about this than that stupid dream journal._ "But they still die when you shoot them, right?"

"Takes a lot of ammo." Jane slapped her bicep. "Armored skin. Explosives work better. They're weak in the eyes, but it's tough to hit them unless you're up close. And you don't want to be up close."

"Yeah." Adrian remembered the way their legs had splayed out after death, vicious talons curved inwards at the tips. "Built like a brick shithouse."

Jane giggled. "That's a new one. I like it, though. Still, wait 'til you see the striders."

"Keep hearing a lot of about these striders," grumbled Adrian, glaring up at the skies. _Had to sleep through the invasion of the tripods, didn't I?_

"Yeah, well, you never forget the first time you see one."

A car honked from behind them. A steel-gray van, chassis rusting, headlights broken, and windshield pocked with bulletholes, pulled up alongside them, sending water spraying in all directions. Jane gave a shout of dismay.

"You sure we can't take one of the other vehicles?"

"It's just a short drive down the road!" shouted back Bradford, leaning out the driver window. "Besides, we know this thing can take a bullet or two, God knows it has already."

"Oh yeah, that's a sweet ride you've got there, boss," said Adrian, looking the van up and down with a sinking sensation in his stomach. "Sure we don't wanna walk?" But Bradford only grinned at him. Adrian stepped around to the passenger door.

"What do you think you're doing?" asked Bradford, grin not disappearing, but eyebrows shooting up. "That's Kelly's seat, Corporal."

"You serious, sir?" Adrian stuttered as he realized Jane stood right behind him. Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her cap. "I mean – sorry, I thought, given that I'm a marine…"

"Does it look like we're still in the Corps, Shephard?" Bradford made a shooing motion. "Kelly and I have shared more battlefields than we have digits put together. You can sit in the back. Enjoy the view."

Adrian rolled his eyes and bowed low before Jane, arms outstretched for the passenger door. She tutted and stepped inside without a word. Adrian took up his seat in the back, feeling like a child.

"Mirt says this thing is completely sound, Jane," said Bradford as Adrian fumbled for a seatbelt, realized there wasn't one, and instead grabbed on to the door handle and gritted his teeth. "I mean, it runs and it will keep running. Said we shouldn't ram any more hunters with it if we can help it."

"Does that work?" asked Adrian through chattering teeth as the van bounced up and down on the gravel.

"Uh, it worked okay the first two times," replied Jane with a meaningful glance at Bradford. "Sounds like we're having a bit of a moratorium on any more ramming."

"Hunters can take a good bit of gunfire, Shephard," said John, eyes sticking on the road. He flicked the windshield wipers on. Sorry – wiper. Only one black wiper whipped across the windshield. The other appeared to be absent. "They don't take blunt trauma as well, nor energy weapons. Vortigaunts do a number on them, as does the AR2's mounted weapon."

"That's the gun you have?" Adrian glanced to the weird strip of metal that John had laid to the side of his seat, next to the handbrake.

"Yep. Squad leader or grenadier gets one, to kill at least one hunter with." Bradford paused. "Of course, shouldn't be running into any today. Haven't seen them lately … and they don't traditionally get carted around in UFOs."

"And machetes work okay, too?"

Jane coughed into her arm. "I'm, um, not gonna try that again if I can help it. I really thought that thing was going to kill me. I had to get it right in the eye."

 _I need a machete._ Adrian had made a point of keeping at least three sharp objects on himself at all times when off-base. Felt naked without a few blades. _Will have to ask Bradford about getting my knife collection started up again. I bet he has one…_

The gravel road ran down the hill and through what would have been a shallow stream, had it not been for the rain. Instead, the van coasted through the water with a loud rush, sending waves in all directions. Adrian, despite his prickled pride, had to admit – the view wasn't bad. White peaks up above, green tress all around, water below … eh, he'd seen worse.

"Tunnel. Hold your breath." Adrian complied, even though Bradford had not sounded that serious when he said it. Still, he wasn't one to turn down a challenge, no matter how minor. Even Jane joined in as the light faded and the view turned to one of concrete whizzing past. When they emerged on the other side, Adrian let out his air slowly. _Barely even felt that. What was it – forty-five seconds?_

"Another uphill bit," muttered Bradford, patting the side of the steering wheel. Jane shot Adrian a grimace. "Come on baby, hold it together…"

Yet the van held together magnificently. The three of them emerged, triumphantly, at the top of the hill, the rain finally ebbing as they crested the apex. A collection of wooden lodges confronted them – if Adrian didn't know better, they looked a bit like the kind of sky lodges he would have found in Colorado. Same look to them. The van inched forward slowly.

"Gas station is further up the road," said Bradford, glancing towards the curve up ahead, "but they usually stay here, in the basement." He gave Jane a look. "Kelly – you do have that shotgun."

"I do indeed." Jane hopped out. "C'mon, Shephard. I'll be your tour guide."

 _Hot damn._ Adrian swung open the door and hoisted himself out, grabbing his dangling weapon and readying it. Shutting the door, he found himself confronted by what, as a marine, he considered sex itself – a petite woman hoisting a very large shotgun. _Nice._

"I got your back." _I got whatever you want._ But Jane just gave him a business-like nod and proceeded through the ajar front door. Adrian sucked in a breath and followed suit.

The interior of the inn both immediately thrilled and depressed Adrian. Thrilled because, it was clear from the wood interior and large fireplace – this has been a _classy_ joint at one point. Depressed because, well, anything that hadn't been nailed down was long gone. No chairs or tables left. Bare countertops. The vague smell of mold in the air.

"Normal so far." Jane continued on, shotgun at her shoulder. She stopped at a staircase leading downward. Basement. "On me."

Adrian kept close, but made sure to keep an eye on his rear as well as hers. Still, they heard not a sound as they descended the wooden steps and emerged in a dank basement, a few very used mattresses laid out on the floor.

"Cam?" Jane's voice echoed a bit. "Dustin?" No response. Adrian's neck began to prickle. _Close by. Can you feel it? And something else … pounding footsteps._

"Maybe they're up by the uh, gas station?"

"Maybe. Be a little weird if they were." Jane frowned and kicked a glass bottle lying on the floor. It rolled in a half circle and just rested against her foot. "If they were upstairs, they would have heard the van and come and had a look. You sure you saw a UFO?"

"Not sure. But felt someone should check."

"Well. We're checking." Jane jerked a thumb back up the stairs. "Let's hop back in the POS and see if they're waiting for us further up the road."

Back up the stairs they went, and through the bare walls of the White Forest Inn. John Bradford glanced expectantly out the window. Jane just shook her head.

"Well, still have more to check." The two of them clambered back inside. The van lurched forward with a little less vigor than Adrian liked. _Humvees. Something else to miss, I guess._

"Everything looked normal, sir, but they weren't there."

"Not much reason to leave this general area. Gives a good view up the road and down it." John kept his eyes straight ahead, but Adrian could see the man's forehead crinkle in the rear-view mirror. "Might have seen something interesting and moved to get a better look. We should-" John stopped. Up ahead, someone on the road waved at them with both arms frantically.

"Cam." John gently accelerated and pulled up alongside the woman, who jumped up and down in a silent frenzy, a finger pressed to her lips.

"Turn the fucking engine off!" she hissed. John complied immediately, and motioned for Adrian and Jane to exit the vehicle. The three of them disembarked in a hurry. "Shit, why are you guys here? I haven't had time to radio in!"

"Saw something back at base," answered Adrian. Cam gave him a suspicious glance.

"New runaway?"

"Foundling. Adrian Shephard." John stepped between them. "Point is, we're here now. Where's Dustin?"

"UFO." Cam pointed further up the road, where it sloped back downwards through the trees. "Landed at the base of the hill. Some things came out. Dustin was out on a run. I don't know what happened, but … I'm not going down there."

"Smart." John clapped her on the shoulder. "We don't know what these things' agenda is."

"It's not that. They were noticed." Cam pointed. Something shifted. Suddenly, framed against the gray skies, Adrian saw them. Tall. Three legs. All staring, intent, down the slope and across the treeline. "They've been watching the whole time."

"Jesus Christ." John motioned everyone to get low, and they did, guns trained on the looming behemoths in the distance. Yet, they did not move. They were not four hundred meters away, yet they did not turn or pay them any mind. They just watched, nearly motionless, the weird ass tube on the back of their bodies pointed perfectly upright. "What the fuck is going on?"

"I've never seen them do that," whispered Jane, transfixed. "Whenever they see an enemy, usually they just go nuts."

"Not today," murmured Bradford, inching forward on his hands and knees. "They've seen something they don't understand." He turned his head to where Cam lay. "How long have they been here?"

"About an hour." Can wiped her dirty nose. "UFO touched down about half an hour before that. Came out, looking for Dustin since he should have been back, saw the UFO down the hill. Then I heard them behind me." She shuddered. "Nearly pissed myself. Ran back here, but they didn't pay me any mind. Just stood there, watching."

"Freaky," muttered Adrian. The things remained perfectly still, their bodies bolt upright. Then, without any apparent stimulus to prompt them, one chirped, and all three scattered, running in different directions further down the road.

"They're done watching," said John, standing. "I've seen that running pattern before. Haven't you?"

Jane nodded. "Yep. Surround and pounce. Leave no room for escape."

"Except for the UFO taking off." Adrian shrugged as he rose. "How do you want to play this, sir?"

"We came all the way out here in the piece of shit van, we're not going back empty-handed." John began jogging down the road. "On me. We're gonna recon, see what we can see – and try to get Dustin back if we can."

"We gonna get our hands dirty?" asked Adrian, privately itching for it.

"Only if I say so." _Good enough for me._

The four of them jogged up to where the hunters had stood. Looking down, they could see the top of the UFO's hull – black verging on purple, smooth enough to eat dinner on. Aside from a few tracks, they saw no sign of the hunters.

"Take up positions along the road." John pointed to a spot, close to where cliff met UFO. "Adrian, there." Adrian nodded and complied, not bothering to see where the others ended up. He laid down flat against the wet grass, ignoring the way it began to soak his clothing. _What do we have here…_

Small, purple creatures dragged bodies along behind them with one hand, the other three limbs used to scurry along the ground. Weird green guns could be seen strapped to their wrists, which terminated in weird elongated fingers. The bodies, from what Adrian could see, were a mess. Guts exposed, hands shredded to the bone, blood all over them…

…a weird yellow thing latched to their head. _Hmm. Seen that before. At least I know I can kill those._ The little purple guys were dragging the corpses up to the ramp, where a big gorilla fucker in green armor waited. The gorilla guy hauled up the body over his shoulder, disappeared into the ship, and then returned. _Taking samples? Field research?_ Adrian glanced over his shoulder. The others watched the proceedings from their own vantage points, expressions just as confused as his.

Further down the road, towards another tunnel, three of them dragged a large spotted creature by its tail. It had only two legs, a single red maw rimmed with tentacles, and Adrian knew from experience the thing stank like shit and had a temper like a bull. The aliens hauled along Cthulu slowly, slowly enough that gorilla-man left his post, stomped over to them, and slung the thing over his shoulder like a plucked chicken. _Well, I know I can kill those things too._

From below, Adrian heard something sounding like a goose's honk, only electronic. The big guy turned, Cthulu's lifeless body slapping comically against his massive shoulder. He glared out at the road, piggy eyes scanning for movement. With every deep breath he took, yellow vapor shot out of his gas mask. _These guys aren't from around here. Hell, even vortigaunts can breathe our air just fine._

The gorilla pounded his chest once and gave a roar. The remaining smaller guys abandoned their charges, leaving the road strewn with bodies while they returned to the craft, none-too-reluctant to leave. The gorilla departed up the ramp last, casting one last imperious glance back over the road. The ramp began to slide into the craft.

Adrian caught a flash of movement to his right. He looked over just in time to see the hunter leap and land atop the spacecraft with what might have been a highly distorted laugh. From inside, the gorilla roared.

"It's on now," whispered Adrian, a grin creeping on to his face despite himself. He kept his weapon pointed at the hunter. _At least I_ know _that thing will kill me if I get in its way._ The gorilla brandished its weapon, pointing it upward. It did not see the blue flechettes flying its way from the cliff above.

The gorilla roared as quivering blue daggers pierced its armor and flesh. It wheeled to face its new assailant, rifle waving in its general direction. It pulled the trigger – emerald light ripped free of its gun. Adrian looked over just in time to see the hunter dart numbly to the side, snickering, while the plasma hit the cliff and left black smoking craters. With a roar, it leapt downward, landing on the road with barely bent legs.

The gorilla turned back inside the craft and gave its own roar, tinged with urgency. The hunter atop of the craft laughed again, a deep, reverberating electronic boom. It dropped down from the lip of the craft and ran inside, followed by its fellow. From the other side of the craft, Adrian caught a glimpse of movement – the third hunter going in for the flank, moving in through the aft ramp.

"We're going down there!" called out John, motioning for them to move. "Down the hill, let's go! Clear out the craft!"

 _Seems a little ambitious._ But they did have the element of surprise. Maybe. _Still. Today I bag me a hunter._

They charged down the slope. All the while, the sounds of alien weapons discharges and the hunter's godawful screaming ricocheted out of the craft and across the valley. Adrian swore the UFO was bouncing side to side as they ran up to its ramp, like a car with two teenagers after prom night.

"Stack up!" Adrian stacked up on the right, behind Jane. Felt a little weird letting a lady take the lead, but she had a shotgun. A _shotgun._ And a sword. Adrian rested one hand on her shoulder while the other kept his submachinegun steady. _Wish I had a sword._

"Would use grenades, but Dustin might be inside." John grimaced. "I'm going in. I'll vape the first hunter and then … and then we'll see." He turned behind him to Cam. "You good?"

Cam brandished her own submachinegun. "Good."

John gave Adrian a look. "Keep moving. Don't get too crazy. Don't get too brave. Oorah?"

"Oorah."

"Going in." Bradford charged up the ramp. Jane followed suit. Adrian didn't hesitate and followed inside.

Green blood coated the walls of the craft, which was a curiously open affair. It was little more than a vast dome, with chairs and glowing holographic screens arranged around what looked like a flight computer. A flight computer and … a glowing green reactor.

It didn't trigger any claustrophobia. But the bodies strewn about the craft, small and purple and broken, alongside the single hulking corpse of the gorilla man, certainly did not bring back good memories. The three hunters stood in the center of the craft, one on either side of the lead, whose chassis now sported an impressive looking burn to one eye. Standing before them, knees shaking, a rebel held up his hands. The hunter took a step forward, good eye turning to John Bradford. It gave out a chirp that turned up in pitch towards the end. A question.

"Don't you fucking dare!" spat Bradford, pulse rifle held forward. The hunter gave its laugh one final time.

It punched forward, stiff grey appendages beneath its head lashing out like mantis. Dustin screamed as the weird antennae punched through his ribcage and lifted him up, up, the things wriggling all the while. He kicked frantically in the air as the floor thickened with his blood, but the hunter merely tossed him aside with as much force and speed as it had picked him up, ignoring his struggle completely. Then it lowered its head and charged headfirst … into the glowing energy Bradford had just shot at it.

The hunter shrieked as it floated upwards, disincorporating with a speed Adrian barely believed. The other two, however, sauntered to the sides, chuckling. They planted their rear leg firmly on the ground.

"Move!"

Flechettes whizzed by Adrian's head as he booked it, darting behind an alien chair. He peaked out and fired, his rounds plugging against the thick carapace of the hunter, sending up a flurry of grayish fluid. The hunter clicked and chirped, but did not scream as the dead one did. It did not even turn Adrian's way.

"They're after the Captain!" shouted Jane, and Adrian could see that was the case. John swore and backed out of the craft, his rifle firing in spurts. One hunter left in pursuit, chortling. Jane chased it out with buckshot, swearing, following it down and out the ramp. The other made an about face. Cam screamed and let loose full auto at point blank range. Metal and clear fluid flew everywhere.

"Come get some, fu-"

The hunter gave a series of hollow, booming laughs and lowered its head. Cam tried to dart to the side, but the hunter stopped just short of where she was. It lifted a leg and lashed out, talon flashing in the light. Adrian saw a spray of red and Cam went down, eyes wide and glassy, red blooming across her abdomen.

"Get some!" Adrian stood and squeezed the trigger in short bursts, one, two, three, just like on the range. It was like flinging spitballs. The hunter's eyes flashed from blue to red. It turned on him with a howl. The third leg steadied itself, and Adrian turned and sprinted backwards.

Blue light flashed in his vision. Behind, the sound of bursting and tearing metal. He turned just in time to see the hunter take a few steps forward and then steady itself again with a laugh. With a sinking feeling, Adrian realized he would either need to make a complete circuit and end up within melee distance, or leave the craft. Neither appealed. So Adrian did what he did best: he charged back the way he had just came, weapon spraying, every round finding its mark in the creature's red-eyed face. As the gun went click, the hunter shook its head, clear fluid now running down its face.

 _It's hurt._ Adrian ejected the magazine and ducked out of sight behind the ship's flight computer(?), hurriedly slotting in another magazine. "I shit bigger than you!"

The hunter shrieked a response, and Adrian heard it moving, feet like pistons. Adrian looked over the flight computer just in time to see the hunter lower its head again. Adrian darted to his right, only, wasn't that what Cam had just tried to-

Adrian fell back on his ass on instinct. The talon came slicing through the air and missed his neck by inches. It did, however, manage to catch his gun as he fell. The weapon went sailing through the air in pieces, coming to a rest in several heaps well outside Adrian's reach. _A sword. My kingdom for a sword._

Adrian backed up, past the green reactor thing, one hand scooting him back while the other fumbled for the pistol at his belt. The hunter advanced menacingly, talons clicking against the floor of the craft. It gave a chortle, lower than any of the others, each distorted vocalization making Adrian's stomach turn. It took another step forward, its bleeding and scorched form silhouetted by the reactor. _The reactor…_

Adrian lifted his pistol and fired as fast as his finger could squeeze the trigger. The hunter, taking no chances even in supposed victory, lunged forward, ready to do to Adrian what its leader had done to Dustin. But Adrian heard glass crack. Heat and emerald light flashed before him, leaving a hell of an afterimage. And the hunter, just a few feet closer to the reactor than Adrian – did not make a sound. It simply flashed once and then vanished, leaving a single clawed leg, top end smoking, standing in place for a second. Then, with the surety of a cartoon, it fell over with a light clank.

"Hope no one gives me shit for that." Adrian let his head slam lightly against the floor as he took a deep breath. _Still alive, marine. Still alive._ He rolled over, remembering his duties. He crawled to where Cam lay, still breathing heavily. Both her hands pressed in tight against her abdomen. She looked to him in mute appeal.

"Pretty sure we brought medkits," said Adrian, thinking back to the van. _And those things work wonders, I tell you what._ "Just don't let anything fall out of you, all right?"

Cam nodded. Adrian left her where she lay. He heard no sounds from outside the ramp, so stepped outside into the dank. Sure enough, Bradford and Jane stood there, dusting off their hands, a hunter carcass sitting in the dust – a machete handle planted deep in its back.

"You got yours?" asked Bradford. Adrian nodded. "Cam?"

"Needs medical attention. Belly sliced open."

This time John nodded, turned to Jane. "Back to the van. Grab two kits, just in case."

"On it, sir." Jane jogged up the hill, legs pumping. Adrian watched her leave. _Blood's up, Makes me want her more._ He glanced back to the blade planted in the hunter. _A lot more._

 _But not as much as I want a sword._

"Tough sons of bitches, aren't they?" asked John, boot planted on top of the hunter's body. "Yet to have a firefight with them where I don't lose somebody. Poor Dustin."

"Came off better than the aliens did," said Adrian, shrugging.

"Pretty sure that was a scouting party. Looked like they were collecting wildlife for some reason." John removed his boot from the hunter and returned to the ramp, heading inside. Adrian followed him, found him crouched at Cam's side.

"Yeah, this is fixable." The Captain squeezed Cam's shoulder. "Don't fall asleep. I know it hurts like hell, but you will live. We'll get you back to White Forest once you're mobile."

Cam nodded, face turning white as she bit her lip. The pool of blood beneath her was not exactly insubstantial. Adrian looked at the wound through her fingertips with a mix of familiarity, revulsion, and curiosity. _Seen plenty of shit like that at Black Mesa._

"So, uh," Adrian began. John looked up at him, expression blank. "What exactly are we gonna do with this UFO, sir?"

"Take over the world, naturally." There was a pause where Bradford clearly expected Adrian to laugh. Adrian didn't quite have it in him. "Uh, gonna take it apart piecemeal, as much as we can, and give the shit to Magnusson. Might ferry some stuff over to Black Mesa East or Kleiner's Lab, if we can manage it." He pointed to the bodies. "I'm thinking those go to Eli, and the reactor and computer go to-" He paused, pointing at the smoking hole where the reactor was. "Huh."

"Had to pop it to kill the hunter, sir." Adrian kept his tone stiff. Better not to leave any uncertainty to the necessity of when a marine fucked something up. _We_ had _to drink all of that beer, sir, otherwise the Navy scags would've._

"What's left of that goes to Kleiner," said John, a resigned tone to his voice. "Anything we can find of their weapons go to Magnusson. He's dead set on his strider buster, but I'm sure he'd love to make a plasma gun, if he could manage it."

"Right." Adrian stood in the center of the UFO, nose wrinkling at the smell of ashes and blood. "On the topic of weapons, sir…"

"Yes, Corporal?"

"I really, really need a sword."

John stood, chuckling. He took Adrian by the shoulder and brought his face close.

"I think we can arrange that, marine."

 _Yeah, but I'll need to look to other avenues to start shooting lightning._ Adrian glanced down at the bleeding form of Cam. _And not just to protect myself._

Adrian Shephard breathed in deep, trying to feel the pulse of the world the vortigaunt had showed him and then ripped away so suddenly. All he could feel was, many miles above, someone watching him back with hungry eyes.

 _New One._

Adrian had a feeling his dreams were going to be weird tonight.


	18. Distorted Original

For such a long time, Annette spent nights envisioning what it would look like to stride into City 17, banners waving, the citizenry looking upon her and the others with a mix of envy and hope. The Breen screens would come crashing down in their wake as the metrocops cast down their weapons and begged for salvation, whilst in the fire-kissed horizon the Citadel smoldered in ruin.

Of course, while Point A and Point C in the plan made sense and were quite clear, the middle bit always seemed so foggy. Really, it was a miracle that there could be any resistance at all, given that the knew the exact scope of their foe; an all-encompassing, faceless entity that already smothered several universes beneath itself, heedless as they slowly stopped struggling. _First we resist. Then … something. Then the Citadels will burn._

The Elders gave her the Point B Annette had always wanted, if never quite envisioned. She sat there on the train, dreaming, clutching a briefcase full of lies and thunder, body bathed in a freshly decontaminated (and then promptly re-dirtied) jumpsuit. The Combine's scanners revealed nothing. They still did not quite realize how quickly their methods could be scoped out and their reactions anticipated. They were just not quite _alive_ enough to react as a thinking sapient would. They simply possessed rote response; mandated protocols for any given situation. Adaptation would come slowly. _Slow enough for the Elders to tip the scales just enough._ Annette's grip around the briefcase tightened. The train's brakes began to scream.

One man waited at the door, swaying gently with exhaustion, a suitcase stuffed with fading photos of dead loved ones. He stank of sweat and cheap whiskey. Annette reached out and felt the embers of hope, long cool. He did not have enough fight in him to seek out the Resistance, and not even enough energy to seek oblivion in Civil Protection. He just waited, wearily, for the moment a bullet would catch him in the back of the head, or an electric truncheon knocked him down before he awoke, blinking, on the last train he would ever take.

 _Nova Prospekt._ As the train pulled into the station, ill-maintained wheels protesting the roughness of the rusted rails, the two words came into bleary focus within Annette's mind. It felt as subtle yet all-encompassing as the body's pulse – listen closely enough and you could hear it, but it had been present all along. A threat. A promise. Even Civil Protection stood with their backs to that train, and only the Overwatch could bear to see it off. To the citizenry … well.

 _They never take people from City 14 there._ The furtive thoughts of the single dirtied individual lingering at the other end of the train, torn bag held to his chest. _They always said this was where they send the prospective stalkers. Oh God. Oh God._ The bag began to rise and fall quickly as the man began to hyperventilate. Annette wished she could reach out, physically or otherwise, let the man know all would be well. But she could only sit there, a small smile playing at her lips. Perhaps he would be lucky. If not, perhaps she would be quick enough. Regardless, few enough trains left City 17 unscathed these days. _My prayers go with you … Roger_ _Dabrowski_ _._

The train stopped and Annette rose. The gentleman at the door (Arthur Freeman) gave her a bleary-eyed look before stumbling out of the opening doors and down the steps. City scanners drifted by, cameras flashing as the three of them stumbled, blinking, into the wide-open station. From above, Dr. Breen smiled down at them all as they entered the city he was so proud to call his home. Annette's lips twitched. The hatred had metamorphosed to scorn. He did not know what he was up against – he could barely grasp the scope of his own ignorance. Yet it was that ignorance that would buy the Elders the time they needed.

Annette walked through the terminal in a daze, her eyes only half-focused. City Protection watched the citizenry scuttle past them with the eyes of predatory birds, intensely aware of each movement, calculating the precise time to dive. One looked her way, his freshly implanted false memories click-click-clicking as they skidded across Annette's face. _He remembers someone like me, a loved-one kept safe by the Combine. Family cohesion preserved._ The machine met the heart and rebounded. Enough remained of the officer to understand sentimentality. He looked away from Annette, because she reminded him of a woman who never existed.

 _Chains and irons._ A vortigaunt pushed a broom across the filthy floor of the station, his neck and hands chained by heavy metal. His head felt swollen and his vision felt distinctly blurry, as if afflicted by the mother of all colds. The Vortessence could not touch this one – all that remained could be described as a fond but distant and painful memory. The vortigaunt pushed the discarded Chinese food packages stiffly, eyes downcast, his mind directed to memories of green lightning and great rocks floating in an improbable void. Annette walked on, through the turnstile, past a woman who clung to the metal wire and called out if anyone had seen her husband on the train. _She's been here too long._ Annette tallied another atrocity for the Combine to answer for.

"Don't drink the water," said an older man waiting on a table covered with bottles. "They put something in it, to make you forget." _But part of us remembers, even through the dull haze of drugs._ She brushed past him, one sleeve skirting his. He gasped as the memories came flooding back, forehead slamming into the table as the electricity flooded his brain. Annette smiled at first, until she heard the sobs. _He forgot he drank it deliberately._ When she looked back, he was limping towards the trains, reaching for the machine for Breen's Private Reserve.

A cage of twisted wire stood before her. To the left, interrogation and Nova Prospekt. Straight ahead, "freedom," such as it was. Dr. Breen leered down at her here as well, teeth flashing in the brightness of the screen. Her companions from the train groped at the chain link, stomachs churning, wondering if this was the end. Annette glanced behind her, at the list of arrivals and departures. _Delayed. Delayed. Delayed._ The entire shutter screen covered up and down with red. Their doing. She was ready.

The cage wound round and round. The line before her shrunk with every footstep. A man directed left, face pinching. No one stopped him for interrogation. He simply proceeded, heart hammering, through the second chain link exit, breath catching in his throat, never to be seen again. A lady, hair drawn up in a greasy bun. She trudged straight onward, barely cognizant or caring of CP's disinterest. Annette followed her.

A flash of attention. Annette lowered her head and smiled as the CP officer, bereft of false memories to stop him, lifted his stun baton, preparing to jerk it towards Nova Prospekt … only to stop dead, hand trembling. Annette held it in place without even turning around, her mind snaking around his, coiling tighter and tighter. With a cry he stumbled backwards. The vomit came up bloody, spraying against the inside of his gas mask. Annette carried on, grinning, as his fellow officer began barking to Overwatch, heedless of the true cause of his fellow's distress. Annette paused at the top of the steps, waiting. The flatline came suddenly, like the song of angels. She continued forward.

The short hallway gave way to the entrance to the depot. Ahead, another office, chest thrust forward like some bird showing off its plumage, a scene from some old movie about state troopers in the U.S. playing in his head. He saw her approach. No false memories crowded his mind. He was still human enough to feel boredom. He reached out with his arm, baton laid straight against a can lying precariously atop a rubbish bin. He swept it forward. The can fell with a clatter. Annette looked up now, giving the CP her widest grin.

"Pick up that can." Her voice came low, and yet somehow it still echoed. The metrocop stiffened, his own mouth agape beneath his mask, yet the words did not come. Mind reeling yet still somehow complying, he reached down awkwardly, like a puppet trying to bow. His glove scraped against the dirtied floor as he scooped up the tin can.

"Now, put it, in the trash can," said Annette quietly.

The metrocop stood bolt upright. His hand jerked over to the lid of the rubbish bin like a malfunctioning sprinkler. With a gasp, he released his grip. The can fell straight down into the bin, with a muffled crinkle of metal on plastic.

"All right," whispered Annette, "you can go."

The metrocop chuckled wheezily before slumping against the bin, disoriented and nauseated. Annette brushed past the shuddering police officer, weighing whether to give the final push or not and switch him off like one would a light when leaving the room. _No. Too much that's still human._ The memory would linger. If he was smart, he would not call it in. As it stood, he was not in much condition to do anything for the moment.

Further away from the train station, the promise and threat turned from _Nova Prospekt_ to _hunger_. Freedom, such as it was, came with it certain expectations. Namely, the ability to withstand suffering and discomfort. Citizens waited for the dispenser to provide the latest in grain and beans, knowing all too well that metrocops were routinely rationed chocolate and sausage. Once upon a time, humanity would not have been able to put a price on its own memories. Now they could be weighed out in ounces of imitation meat.

Annette did not have time to linger. She remained uncertain just what kind of food currently curdled in her own belly, only that it was plentiful and good, as the Elders had promised. She rounded the corner without any of that hollow rumbling. The double doors waited. She resisted the urge to open them with something other than her hands.

The Citadel dwarfed everything around it. Wires ran up to it from the city like massive feeding lines. She still did not know whether it pulled power from what was left of the Bulgarian power grid or delivered it via those lines. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on what would be lost once the Combine were gone. Elerium would almost certainly be good enough to replace whatever energy might be lost with their absence.

Dr. Breen flashed another smile from his own, smaller tower at the center of the screen. Yet his eyes looked more crinkled than Annette remembered, either from age or worry. She wished she could hear his thoughts, understand his justifications. Instead, all she could feel was static. All she could hear was bluster.

"…that occasionally we require reminders of how far we have come as a species, climbing out of that dark pit of ignorance," said Dr. Breen, all white teeth and unwrinkled clothing. "It is tempting to look upwards at those peaks of knowledge and plenty and succumb to that yearning hollowness we all feel when we realize our own incompletion. We convince ourselves that sliding backwards into the familiar darkness is the only thing that will bring us comfort, knowing that even if we cannot see, at least it is familiar and warm."

 _I look around and I do not see progress._ A metrocop guarded the half-open door to some kind of store. He shifted towards the entrance to obscure the kneeling figures within, the gun barrel pointed at the back of their necks. Up ahead, one of the blue steel walls barred the path down the street, a buzzing blue field barring progress. _A technological marvel, truly._ The ground trembled. For the first time, Annette reached out in tremulous curiosity for a strider.

Ponderous. Aloof. Cantankerous. Whatever trace of the creature that made up the strider could no longer be discerned from what Annette felt. Each step came deliberately, each sweep of its nose gun meant both for effect and surveillance. It loved the way the citizens looked up at it, before their eyes inevitably swept downwards to the spikes at its feet. It loved the way the crowds parted. Its brain, rewired and crosswired and haywire, itched for day it could unleash its warp cannon again. _Feels more like a bladder than a brain. Merde. It longs for a release._

So, that was to be the fate of humanity. Elongated and stretched thin until only the vaguest sense of authority and bloodlust remained. If anything, the current Overwatch felt too dignified and grounded if the strider was the Combine's premier synth. _Perhaps the hunters and gunships … no, too much to hope for._

Annette glanced behind her. Scanners flitted across the plaza, quietly taking their count. _Airwatch is going to report a miscount soon._ She needed to get to an apartment complex. To her right, an alley, fenced off … but a ladder leading up to a small catwalk occupied the building's wall, just atop a dumpster. Annette climbed it with one hand while the briefcase occupied her other. She mounted the catwalk and dropped down, quickly. The Combine were always slow to rouse, but they were already on alert for people like her. People that looked like her. _Citizens who are not citizens._

Annette rounded the corner. A gaggle of citizens waited to her right, anxiously watching the apartment down the lane from them, past the long derelict playground.

"This is how it always starts," said one, voice hushed, "first the building, then the whole block."

"They have no reason to come to our place," replied the other, shrugging.

"Don't worry; they'll find one!"

Annette brushed past them. _Perfect. No one will get in trouble that isn't already … doomed._ Perhaps her actions could save them. They had to know it was time to run.

Up ahead, two metrocops guarded the main entrance, watching this strange woman eye them without fear. Tempting as it was to make a scene, she needed to access the building quietly, without their compatriots on the alert. A single door on the left provided the opening she needed. Annette strolled inside, heart picking up the pace. She heard the CP call in to Dispatch as she entered.

"Overwatch, possible 10-70 at my 10-20."

"Confirmed. Airwatch is reporting possible miscount. Recalibrate socio-scanners and hold."

 _Not much time._ Annette hurried up the steps of the tenements, trying not to inhale the dust and mold. As the wood creaked and groaned under her wait, she heard banging from up ahead. As her head crested the stairwell to the first floor, she arrived just in time to see a metrocop kick out the hinges, pistol in hand. The CPs disappeared inside the room in a chorus of crashing wood and breaking glass, but mercifully no gunshots.

To her right, the door had already been kicked in, the sounds of a Breencast emanating from within. _And there it is._ Annette ducked inside, wrinkling her nose from the fumes of alcohol. A single gentleman, thoughts languid from drink, glanced up from his bottle at the table.

"Was that you knocking?" he mumbled before turning back to his home brew. "Didn't know we still had a door." Annette glanced back at the conspicuous absence of door behind her. _Poor man. Poor everyone._ The television waited on the tabletop, hooked up to a wall socket. And of course, the wall socket ran to the nearest power station, which ran to the Nexus, which ran … to the Citadel. _Centralization. The Combine's strength. And also their vulnerability._

Annette reached back with her mind. The metrocops were occupied with their beatings, the blood glistening on the barrels of their guns. She opened her briefcase without hurry, reaching back for the small data packet. She placed it gingerly on the back of the television, where it attached with the slight sound of suction. _Time for a pirate broadcast._

But first, there came the matter of guaranteeing the stay of sentence for humanity. A battleship showing up over a city? It would end in either the destruction of the battleship or the sudden annihilation of the Earth courtesy of a superportal. But … if it were preceded by a spectacle, one showcasing the best of humanity showcasing her new talents…?

"It must be you, child," the Elders had intoned, fingers damp with holy oils as they brushed her temple, "only you can deliver your species from this fate. We must escalate, but first we must show these Harvesters – let them see you as we see you."

 _Ascend._

Annette reached out and felt the fear and heartbreak, as well as the mistrust and sadism. Humanity, all bound together and stomped down by one massive boot. A single system, perpetuated for God knew why. And today, the system would receive a shock. Annette marched down the hallway without fear, towards the stairs. She stormed up them, the hair raising on her arms and neck.

"Attention residents: miscount detected in your block. Cooperation with your Civil Protection team permits full ration reward."

Boots pounded from downstairs, shadows visible on the landings. The snap of stun batons filled Annette's ears. They were coming. Annette began to run. Citizens gaped as she passed, some pointing, others beginning to yell, covering their ears and waiting for the end.

"Head for the roof!" shouted one woman, but Annette had no idea if it was meant for her or not. Her mind was filled with light, with anticipation. She reached the final set of stairs, coming face to face with a trio of metrocops. With a twitch, his stun baton came to life. Annette flashed him a smile and bolted up the final flight, emerging at long last in the broken attic.

"Individual – you are charged with socio-endangerment level: One," droned Overwatch dispatch. "Please confirm social status with local protection team immediately."

Annette vaulted nimbly over the broken section of the attic wall. Now she stood under open skies, the roofs beneath her, the sun warming her face. She took a few steps backward, arms wide, the tile clicking beneath her sneakers. She waited, hands empty, mind brimming. _This is it. Am I what they wanted? A New One?_

Across the way, on the other rooftops, shadowy figures watched from behind chimneys, hidden weapons clutched to their chests. They, too, awaited the display the Elders had spoken of, the manifestation of their salvation's arrival. Annette waited, smile splayed across her sun-browned face. From the stairs below, metrocop after metrocop sprinted up the steps, kneeling with their weapons at the ready, none yet daring to fire. From above, a single scanner descended, clicking. Annette did not even blink as the camera flashed.

"Attention ground units: Airwatch has verified miscount. Behavior consistent with anti-citizenry. Administer final verdict."

The team leader lifted his hand and pointed. Annette clenched her hands into fists, purple energy flashing. The muzzles flashed, and the air distorted with hidden energy. _So, this is what it feels like._ The bullets whizzed by her, their marks true, but their paths sent haywire by the telekinetic field. She could not quite catch and send them back, but she could certainly make them a menace to passing pigeons.

Tile shattered and bullets flew. Annette stood there, teeth gritted, holding the field, knowing this would not be the hard bit. More city scanners emerged from behind chimneys and further down the street, drawn to the spectacle. Almost as one, the CP's guns went click.

"Overwatch, anomalous energies detected. Suspect is uh, antibiotic resistant, repeat, resistant."

Annette, a single drop of blood falling from her nose, smiled wide. The magazines clattered to the floor. _This is the moment._ She reached out, to the team leader, to the team, to every bloody metrocop in the building, then the block. She screamed, feeling as if every muscle in her body were told to power clean a freight train … yet still she pushed.

The telekinetic field faded away … something else took its place.

"Overwatch, we've got-"

A chorus of screams. Blood ran from noses and ears and mouths and eyes. Hearts shuddered and stopped within chests. Metrocops danced like drunken wretches before collapsing, spasming as their brains smoldered. Annette screamed loudest, a scream which rent the air in twain. A chimney burst in a shower of bricks as it hit resonance, sending shards of mortar in all directions. Birds fell from the sky. The scanners burst as one, their feeds abruptly cut. Then, finally, as Annette fell to her knees, gasping, the air fell heavy and silent. Then, as one, every single metrocop in a mile's square radius let out one, lengthy flatline. Annette looked up at the sun, wiping the tears of blood from her own eyes.

 _Mon dieu. It is done. Elders, it is done._

"Oh my God." Annette did not have the energy to turn around, nor to even read a single mind. She just knelt there, waiting for her friends across the rooftop. Footsteps echoed across the broken tiles. A warm hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Annette looked up. She knew that face. Alyx Vance, face pinched with concern. She gave a little gasp when she saw Annette's face. "No, you're not okay. What the hell was that?"

Annette stood unsteadily, the blood now smeared across her lip and brow. She grabbed Alyx's shoulder.

"You should leave," she rasped. "Your teleporter. You should leave." _Is it ready? I didn't know, I didn't know their lab was so close…_

"I'm not going anywhere without…" Alyx stopped, glancing past Annette. She drew a pistol from her jacket, lightning fast, trained on what Annette knew were her friends.

"They're with me," said Annette, raising a shaky hand.

"They're not human," replied Alyx, gun not moving from where she pointed it.

"Neither are vortigants. Both want to help." Annette shrugged. "But only they could help me do … this."

Klaxons sounded, and not just in the distance. Far off in the horizon, the plates of the Citadel started to shift. Artillery no longer cut it. They needed surveillance, and quickly. Annette could not help but laugh, openly, until it turned to coughing. A gob of bloody phlegm splattered against the roof.

"We must leave, New One," hissed a friend. "What are we to do with this?"

"Leave her." Annette turned to the trio of thin men, their own plasma rifles pointed squarely at Ms. Vance's face. "We have done our part in this fight." She looked back curiously at Alyx. _Will you do yours, Ms. Vance?_ Alyx blanched as she realized Annette's lips had not moved.

"How…"

 _Tell them what you saw. What you saw me do. And then …_ Annette giggled. _Tune in. You'll see a familiar face._

A thin man wrapped his arms around her. She fell into his embrace without reserve, muscles sagging. They lifted her up and up, while Ms. Vance became small and insignificant yet again, left alone to her own doubts.

From rooftop to rooftop they leapt, all turning into a blur of concrete and far-off streets flashing by. From above, the Citadel exposed its ribs. Scanners emptied from its depths. But they were too late, too late. The thin men set her down at the city's walls. A green light beamed from above. Annette laughed at the weightlessness, as they sucked her up and up, home to the Elder's loving arms.

He floated there, all four arms exposed, two pressed at his masked temple, the other two outstretched to Annette. After a moment's hesitation, she embraced his bony form, felt the curious strength of his limbs.

"Child, my child," murmured the Elder, his tone proud and hungry. "For so long we have looked. For so long we have lingered. For so long we have lost. And now you are here. Transcendent. Magnificent."

Annette stepped back, knees shaking. The Elder gestured to the sectoid helmsmen, who were already maneuvering the UFO away at great speed.

"It is time. Let the New One gaze upon the fruits of her labors, at our formal declaration of war."

"If only I stood in the plaza," said Annette, voice hoarse. The Elder chuckled.

"Ah, child. When next you return there, I promise you, it will be as a conqueror. Now…"

The ship computer head's up display enlarged, shifted to the center of the UFO. Dr. Breen stared down at them, all smiles and reassurance. Then the image flickered once, twice. The ADVENT logo flared amidst the static. Across City 17, even as far as she was, Annette felt the surge of panic … and of elation.

"Attention City 17," said Speaker Odessa Cubbage, stepping into view with the ADVENT logo at his back, mustache freshly trimmed, blue eyes alive with cheeky energy. "The ADVENT administration regrets to interrupt your usual broadcast. We are here to announce our presence on this planet. Your liberation is nigh. Stay tuned for further announcements. We will be in touch."

Odessa smiled, head turning off-camera. Then he looked up, as if addressing God.

"As for the gentlemen in the City 17 Citadel, I would direct your attention to recent footage. Your path for progress for our people is, to put it politely, piss-poor, and passing over the potential we possess. Be aware that we will be coming for you soon. And we have so much more to show you, as we try our own hand at nation-building."

Odessa smiled, spreading his own arms wide.

"The ADVENT administration officially announces its presence here on planet Earth. This is now contested ground. Look for our Elders – their struggle is our struggle. Their wisdom is our wisdom. Their power is our power. They are our new benefactors … but I think this exchange is more than fair."

"Be ready, gentlemen. We are coming. No…" Odessa leaned into the camera, brow furrowing.

"…we are already here."

The atmosphere rippled. The first of the ADVENT's transports began its shaky journey towards the unsuspecting City 14, its payload full of hate. Part of Annette felt a stab of pity.

The rest rejoiced in their coming, for this was to be the time of the ADVENT.

The end was nigh. Then, the beginning.


End file.
